OF  CALIF.  LIBKAHY,  LOS 


[See  page  40 

HE    CAPERED    THROUGH    THE    MELODY    OF    DVORAK'S,    WHICH    IS    AS 
IRONIC   AS   A   GRINNING   MASK 


HUMORESQUE 

A  LAUGH  ON  LIFE  WITH 
A  TEAR  BEHIND  IT  ^  ^ 
By  FANNIE  HURST 

Author   of  "GASLIGHT  SONATAS"   Etc. 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


HUMORESQUK 

Copyright,   1919,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March,  1919 

P-T 


To 
Daniel    Frohman 


• 


2130235 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

HUMORESQUE I 

OATS  FOR  THE  WOMAN 45 

A  PETAL  ON  THE  CURRENT 85 

WHITE  GOODS 126 

"HEADS" 170 

A  BOOB  SPELLED  BACKWARD 220 

EVEN  AS  You  AND  I 262 

THE  WRONG  PEW 300 


HUMORESQUE 


HUMORESQUE 


ON  either  side  of  the  Bowery,  which  cuts  through 
like  a  drain  to  catch  its  sewage,  Every  Man's 
Land,  a  reeking  march  of  humanity  and  humidity, 
steams  with  the  excrement  of  seventeen  languages, 
flung  in  patois  from  tenement  windows,  fire-escapes, 
curbs,  stoops,  and  cellars  whose  walls  are  terrible 
and  spongy  with  fungi. 

By  that  impregnable  chemistry  of  race  whereby 
the  red  blood  of  the  Mongolian  and  the  red  blood 
of  the  Caucasian  become  as  oil  and  water  in  the 
mingling,  Mulberry  Street,  bounded  by  sixteen  lan- 
guages, runs  its  intact  Latin  length  of  push-carts, 
clothes-lines,  naked  babies,  drying  vermicelli;  black- 
eyed  women  in  rhinestone  combs  and  perennially 
big  with  child;  whole  families  of  buttonhole-makers, 
who  first  saw  the  blue-and-gold  light  of  Sorrento, 
bent  at  home  work  round  a  single  gas  flare ;  pomaded 
barbers  of  a  thousand  Neapolitan  amours.  And 
then,  just  as  suddenly,  almost  without  osmosis  and 
by  the  mere  stepping  down  from  the  curb,  Mulberry 
becomes  Mott  Street,  hung  in  grill-work  balconies, 
the  moldy  smell  of  poverty  touched  up  with  incense. 
Orientals  whose  feet  shuffle  and  whose  faces  are 


HUMORESQUE 

carved  out  of  satinwood.  Forbidden  women,  their 
white,  drugged  faces  behind  upper  windows.  Yellow 
children,  incongruous  enough  in  Western  clothing. 
A  draughty  area  way  with  an  oblique  of  gaslight  and 
a  black  well  of  descending  staircase.  Show-windows 
of  jade  and  tea  and  Chinese  porcelains. 

More  streets  emanating  out  from  Mott  like  a  hand- 
ful of  crooked  rheumatic  fingers,  then  suddenly  the 
Bowery  again,  cowering  beneath  Elevated  trains, 
where  men  burned  down  to  the  butt  end  of  soiled 
lives  pass  in  and  out  and  out  and  in  of  the  knee- 
high  swinging  doors,  a  veiny-nosed,  acid-eaten  race 
in  themselves. 

Allen  Street,  too,  still  more  easterly,  and  half  as 
wide,  is  straddled  its  entire  width  by  the  steely, 
long-legged  skeleton  of  Elevated  traffic,  so  that  its 
third-floor  windows  no  sooner  shudder  into  silence 
from  the  rushing  shock  of  one  train  than  they  are 
shaken  into  chatter  by  the  passage  of  another. 
Indeed,  third-floor  dwellers  of  Allen  Street,  reaching 
out,  can  almost  touch  the  serrated  edges  of  the 
Elevated  structure,  and  in  summer  the  smell  of  its 
hot  rails  becomes  an  actual  taste  in  the  mouth. 
Passengers,  in  turn,  look  in  upon  this  horizontal 
of  life  as  they  whiz  by.  Once,  in  fact,  the  blurry 
figure  of  what  might  have  been  a  woman  leaned 
out,  as  she  passed,  to  toss  into  one  Abrahm  Kantor's 
apartment  a  short-stemmed  pink  carnation.  It  hit 
softly  on  little  Leon  Kantor's  crib,  brushing  him 
fragrantly  across  the  mouth  and  causing  him  to 
pucker  up. 

Beneath,  where   even  in  August   noonday,   the 


HUMORESQUE 

sun  cannot  find  its  way  by  a  chink,  and  babies  lie 
stark  naked  in  the  cavernous  shade,  Allen  Street 
presents  a  sort  of  submarine  and  greenish  gloom,  as 
if  its  humanity  were  actually  moving  through  a  sea 
of  aqueous  shadows,  faces  rather  bleached  and 
shrunk  from  sunlessness  as  water  can  bleach  and 
shrink.  And  then,  like  a  shimmering  background 
of  orange-finned  and  copper-flanked  marine  life,  the 
brass-shops  of  Allen  Street,  whole  rows  of  them,  burn 
flamelessly  and  without  benefit  of  fuel. 

To  enter  Abrahm  Kantor's — Brasses,  was  three 
steps  down,  so  that  his  casement  show-window,  at 
best  filmed  over  with  the  constant  rain  of  dust 
ground  down  from  the  rails  above,  was  obscure 
enough,  but  crammed  with  copied  loot  of  khedive 
and  of  czar.  The  seven-branch  candlestick  so 
biblical  and  supplicating  of  arms.  An  urn,  shaped 
like  Rebecca's,  of  brass,  all  beaten  over  with  little 
pocks.  Things — cups,  trays,  knockers,  ikons,  gar- 
goyles, bowls,  and  teapots.  A  symphony  of  bells  in 
graduated  sizes.  Jardinieres  with  fat  sides.  A  pot- 
bellied samovar.  A  swinging-lamp  for  the  dead, 
star-shaped.  Against  the  door,  an  octave  of  tubular 
chimes,  prisms  of  voiceless  harmony  and  of  heatless 
light. 

Opening  this  door,  they  rang  gently,  like  melody 
heard  through  water  and  behind  glass.  Another  bell 
rang,  too,  in  tilted  singsong  from  a  pulley  operating 
somewhere  in  the  catacomb  rear  of  this  lambent  vale 
of  things  and  things  and  things.  In  turn,  this 
pulley  set  in  toll  still  another  bell,  two  flights  up  in 
Abrahm  Kantor's  tenement,  which  overlooked  the 

3 


HUMORESQUE 

front  of  whizzing  rails  and  a  rear  wilderness  of  gibbet- 
looking  clothes-lines,  dangling  perpetual  specters  of 
flapping  union  suits  in  a  mid-air  flaky  with  soot. 

Often  at  lunch,  or  even  the  evening  meal,  this  bell 
would  ring  in  on  Abrahm  Kantor's  digestive  well- 
being,  and  while  he  hurried  down,  napkin  often  bib- 
fashion  still  about  his  neck,  and  into  the  smouldering 
lanes  of  copper,  would  leave  an  eloquent  void  at  the 
head  of  his  well-surrounded  table. 

This  bell  was  ringing  now,  jingling  in  upon  the 
slumber  of  a  still  newer  Kantor,  snuggling  peace- 
fully enough  within  the  ammoniac  depths  of  a 
cradle  recently  evacuated  by  Leon,  heretofore  im- 
pinged upon  you. 

On  her  knees  before  an  oven  that  billowed  forth 
hotly  into  her  face,  Mrs.  Kantor,  fairly  fat  and 
not  yet  forty,  and  at  the  immemorial  task  of  plumb- 
ing a  delicately  swelling  layer-cake  with  broom- 
straw,  raised  her  face,  reddened  and  faintly  moist. 

"Isadore,  run  down  and  say  your  papa  is  out 
until  six.  If  it's  a  customer,  remember  the  first 
asking-price  is  the  two  middle  figures  on  the  tag, 
and  the  last  asking-price  is  the  two  outside  figures. 
See  once,  with  your  papa  out  to  buy  your  little 
brother  his  birthday  present,  and  your  mother  in  a 
cake,  if  you  can't  make  a  sale  for  first  price." 

Isadore  Kantor,  aged  eleven  and  hunched  with  a 
younger  Kantor  over  an  oilcloth-covered  table, 
hunched  himself  still  deeper  in  a  barter  for  a  large 
crystal  marble  with  a  candy  stripe  down  its  center. 

"Izzie,  did  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes'm."   ' 

4 


HUMORESQUE 

"Go  down  this  minute — do  you  hear?  Rudolph, 
stop  always  letting  your  big  brother  get  the  best  of 
you  in  marbles.  Iz-zie!" 

"In-a-minute." 

"Don't  let  me  have  to  ask  you  again,  Isadore 
Kantor!" 

"Aw,  ma,  I  got  some  'rithmetic  to  do.  Let 
Esther  go!" 

"Always  Esther!  Your  sister  stays  right  in  the 
front  room  with  her  spelling." 

"Aw,  ma,  I  got  spelling,  too." 

"Every  time  I  ask  that  boy  he  should  do  me  one 
thing,  right  away  he  gets  lessons!  With  me,  that 
lessons-talk  don't  go  no  more.  Every  time  you 
get  put  down  in  school,  I'm  surprised  there's  a  place 
left  lower  where  they  can  put  you.  Working-papers 
for  such  a  boy  like  you ! " 

"I'll  woik— " 

"How  I  worried  myself!  Violin  lessons  yet — 
thirty  cents  a  lesson  out  of  your  papa's  pants  while 
he  slept!  That's  how  I  wanted  to  have  in  the 
family  a  profession — maybe  a  musician  on  the  violin ! 
Lessons  for  you  out  of  money  I  had  to  lie  to  your 
papa  about!  Honest,  when  I  think  of  it — my  own 
husband — it's  a  wonder  I  don't  potch  you  just  for 
remembering  it.  Rudolph,  will  you  stop  licking 
that  cake-pan?  It's  saved  for  your  little  brother 
Leon.  Ain't  you  ashamed  even  on  your  little 
brother's  birthday  to  steal  from  him?" 

"Ma,  gimme  the  spoon?" 

"I'll  give  you  the  spoon,  Isadore  Kantor,  where 
you  don't  want  it.  If  you  don't  hurry  down,  the 

5 


HUMORESQUE 

way  that  bell  is  ringing,  not  one  bite  do  you 
get  out  of  your  little  brother's  birthday-cake 
to-night!" 

"I'm  goin',  ain't  I?" 

"Always  on  my  children's  birthdays  a  meanness 
sets  into  this  house!  Ru-dolph,  will  you  put  down 
that  bowl!  Iz-zie — for  the  last  time  I  ask  you — 
for  the  last  time — " 

Erect  now,  Mrs.  Kantor  lifted  an  expressive  hand, 
letting  it  hover. 

"I'm  goin',  ma;  for  golly  sakes,  I'm  goin'!"  said 
her  recalcitrant  one,  shuffling  off  toward  the  stair- 
case, shuffling,  shuffling. 

Then  Mrs.  Kantor  resumed  her  plumbing,  and 
through  the  little  apartment,  its  middle  and  only 
bedroom  of  three  beds  and  a  crib  lighted  vicariously 
by  the  front  room  and  kitchen,  began  to  wind  the 
warm,  the  golden-brown  fragrance  of  cake  in  the 
rising. 

By  six  o'clock  the  shades  were  drawn  against  the 
dirty  dusk  of  Allen  Street  and  the  oilcloth-covered 
table  dragged  out  center  and  spread  by  Esther 
Kantor,  nine  in  years,  in  the  sturdy  little  legs 
bulging  over  shoe-tops,  in  the  pink  cheeks  that 
sagged  slightly  of  plumpness,  and  in  the  utter 
roundness  of  face  and  gaze,  but  mysteriously  older 
in  the  little-mother  lore  of  crib  and  knee-dandling 
ditties  and  in  the  ropy  length  and  thickness  of  the 
two  brown  plaits  down  her  back. 

There  was  an  eloquence  to  that  waiting,  laid-out 
table,  the  print  of  the  family  already  gathered 
about  it;  the  dynastic  high  chair,  throne  of  each 

6 


HUMORESQUE 

succeeding  Kantor;  an  armchair  drawn  up  before 
the  paternal  mustache-cup;  the  ordinary  kitchen 
chair  of  Mannie  Kantor,  who  spilled  things,  an  oil- 
cloth sort  of  bib  dangling  from  its  back;  the  little 
chair  of  Leon  Kantor,  cushioned  in  an  old  family 
album  that  raised  his  chin  above  the  table.  Even  in 
cutlery  the  Kantor  family  was  not  lacking  in  variety. 
Surrounding  a  centerpiece  of  thick  Russian  lace 
were  Russian  spoons  washed  in  washed-off  gilt;  forks 
of  one,  two,  and  three  tines;  steel  knives  with  black 
handles;  a  hartshorn  carving-knife.  Thick-lipped 
china  in  stacks  before  the  armchair.  A  round  four- 
pound  loaf  of  black  bread  waiting  to  be  torn,  and 
to-night,  on  the  festive  mat  of  cotton  lace,  a  cake  of 
pinkly  gleaming  icing,  encircled  with  five  pink  little 
candles. 

At  slightly  after  six  Abrahm  Kantor  returned, 
leading  by  a  resisting  wrist  Leon  Kantor,  his  stemlike 
little  legs,  hit  midship,  as  it  were,  by  not  sufficiently 
cut-down  trousers  and  so  narrow  and  birdlike  of 
face  that  his  eyes  quite  obliterated  the  remaining 
map  of  his  features,  like  those  of  a  still  wet  nestling. 
All  except  his  ears.  They  poised  at  the  sides  of 
Leon's  shaved  head  of  black  bristles,  as  if  butterflies 
had  just  lighted  there,  whispering,  with  very  spread 
wings,  their  message,  and  presently  would  fly  off 
again.  By  some  sort  of  muscular  contraction 
he  could  wiggle  these  ears  at  will,  and  would  do  so 
for  a  penny  or  a  whistle,  and  upon  one  occasion  for 
his  brother  Rudolph's  dead  rat,  so  devised  as  to 
dangle  from  string  and  window  before  the  unhappy 
passer-by.  They  were  quivering  now,  these  ears, 
2  7 


HUMORESQUE 

but  because  the  entire  little  face  was  twitching  back 
tears  and  gulp  of  sobs. 

"Abrahm — Leon — what  is  it?"  Her  hands  and 
her  forearms  instantly  out  from  the  business  of 
kneading  something  meaty  and  floury,  Mrs.  Kantor 
rushed  forward,  her  glance  quick  from  one  to  the 
other  of  them.  "Abrahm,  what's  wrong?" 

"I'll  feedle  him!     I'll  feedle  him!" 

The  little  pulling  wrist  still  in  clutch,  Mr.  Kantor 
regarded  his  wife,  the  lower  half  of  his  face,  well 
covered  with  reddish  bristles,  undershot,  his  free 
hand  and  even  his  eyes  violently  lifted.  To  those 
who  see  in  a  man  a  perpetual  kinship  to  that  animal 
kingdom  of  which  he  is  supreme,  there  was  some- 
thing undeniably  anthropoidal  about  Abrahrn  Kan- 
tor, a  certain  simian  width  between  the  eyes  and 
long,  rather  agile  hands  with  hairy  backs. 

"Hush  it!"  cried  Mr.  Kantor,  his  free  hand  raised 
in  threat  of  descent,  and  cowering  his  small  son 
to  still  more  undersized  proportions.  "Hush  it  or, 
by  golly!  I'll—" 

"Abrahm — Abrahm — what  is  it?" 

Then  Mr.  Kantor  gave  vent  in  acridity  of  word 
and  feature. 

"Schlemmil!'1  he  cried.  "Momser!  Ganejl  Nebich!" 
by  which,  in  smiting  mother  tongue,  he  branded  his 
offspring  with  attributes  of  apostate  and  ne'er-do- 
well,  of  idiot  and  thief. 

"Abrahm!" 

"Schlemmil!'1  repeated  Mr.  Kantor,  swinging 
Leon  so  that  he  described  a  large  semicircle  that 
landed  him  into  the  meaty  and  waiting  embrace  of 

8 


HUMORESQUE 

his  mother.  "Take  him!  You  should  be  proud  of 
such  a  little  momser  for  a  son !  Take  him,  and  here 
you  got  back  his  birthday  dollar.  A  f eedle !  Honest 
— when  I  think  on  it — a  f  eedle!" 

Such  a  rush  of  outrage  seemed  fairly  to  strangle 
Mr.  Kantor  that  he  stood,  hand  still  upraised, 
choking  and  inarticulate  above  the  now  frankly 
howling  huddle  of  his  son. 

"Abrahm,  you  should  just  once  touch  this  child! 
How  he  trembles!  Leon — mamma's  baby — what  is 
it?  Is  this  how  you  come  back  when  papa  takes 
you  out  to  buy  your  birthday  present?  Ain't  you 
ashamed?" 

Mouth  distended  to  a  large  and  blackly  hollow  O, 
Leon,  between  terrifying  spells  of  breath-holding, 
continued  to  howl. 

"All  the  way  to  Naftel's  toy-store  I  drag  him. 
A  birthday  present  for  a  dollar  his  mother  wants  he 
should  have,  all  right,  a  birthday  present!  I  give 
you  my  word  till  I'm  ashamed  for  Naftel,  every  toy 
in  his  shelves  is  pulled  down.  Such  a  cow — that 
shakes  with  his  head — " 

"No — no — no!"  This  from  young  Leon,  beating 
at  his  mother's  skirts. 

Again  the  upraised  but  never  quite  descending 
hand  of  his  father. 

"By  golly!  I'll  'no— no'  you!" 

"Abrahm — go  'way!     Baby,  what  did  papa  do?" 

Then  Mr.  Kantor  broke  into  an  actual  tarantella 
of  rage,  his  hands  palms  up  and  dancing. 

"What  did  papa  do?'  she  asks.     She's  got  easy 
asking.     'What  did  papa  do?'    The  whole  shop,  I 

9 


HUMORESQUE 

tell  you.  A  sheep  with  a  baa  inside  when  you 
squeeze  on  him — games — a  horn  so  he  can  holler 
my  head  off — such  a  knife  like  Izzie's  with  a  scissors 
in  it.  'Leon,'  I  said,  ashamed  for  Naftel,  'that's 
a  fine  knife  like  Izzie's  so  you  can  cut  up  with.  All 
right,  then' — when  I  see  how  he  hollers — 'such  a 
box  full  of  soldiers  to  have  war  with.'  'Dollar 
seventy-five,'  says  Naftel.  'All  right,  then,'  I  says, 
when  I  seen  how  he  keeps  hollering.  'Give  you  a 
dollar  fifteen  for  'em.'  I  should  make  myself  small 
for  fifteen  cents  more.  'Dollar  fifteen,'  I  says — 
anything  so  he  should  shut  up  with  his  hollering  for 
what  he  seen  in  the  window." 

"He  seen  something  in  the  window  he  wanted, 
Abrahm?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?  A  feedle!  A  four-dollar 
feedle!  A  moosicer,  so  we  should  have  another 
feedler  in  the  family  for  some  thirty-cents  lessons." 

"Abrahm — you  mean — he — our  Leon — wanted  a 
violin?" 

"'Wanted,'  she  says.  I  could  potch  him  again 
this  minute  for  how  he  wanted  it!  Du — you  little 
bum  you — chammer — momser — I'll  feedle  you!" 

Across  Mrs.  Kantor's  face,  as  she  knelt  there  in 
the  shapeless  cotton-stuff  uniform  of  poverty, 
through  the  very  tenement  of  her  body,  a  light 
had  flashed  up  into  her  eyes.  She  drew  her  son 
closer,  crushing  his  puny  cheek  up  against  hers, 
cupping  his  bristly  little  head  in  her  by  no  means 
immaculate  palms. 

"He  wanted  a  violin!  It's  come,  Abrahm! 
The  dream  of  all  my  life — my  prayers — it's  come! 

10 


I  knew  it  must  be  one  of  my  children  if  I  waited 
long  enough — and  prayed  enough.  A  musician! 
He  wants  a  violin !  He  cried  for  a  violin !  My  baby ! 
Why,  darlink,  mamma  '11  sell  her  clothes  off  her  back 
to  get  you  a  violin.  He's  a  musician,  Abrahm! 
I  should  have  known  it  the  way  he's  fooling  always 
around  the  chimes  and  the  bells  in  the  store!'' 

Then  Mr.  Kantor  took  to  rocking  his  head  be- 
tween his  palms. 

"Oi — oi!  The  mother  is  crazier  as  her  son.  A 
moosician!  A  Jresser,  you  mean.  Such  an  eater, 
it's  a  wonder  he  ain't  twice  too  big  instead  of  twice 
too  little  for  his  age." 

"That's  a  sign,  Abrahm;  geniuses,  they  all  eat  big. 
For  all  we  know,  he's  a  genius.  I  swear  to  you, 
Abrahm,  all  the  months  before  he  was  born  I  prayed 
for  it.  Each  one  before  they  came,  I  prayed  it  should 
be  the  one.  I  thought  that  time  the  way  our  Isadore 
ran  after  the  organ-grinder  he  would  be  the  one. 
How  could  I  know  it  was  the  monkey  he  wanted? 
When  Isadore  wouldn't  take  to  it  I  prayed  my  next 
one,  and  then  my  next  one,  should  have  the  talent. 
I've  prayed  for  it,  Abrahm.  If  he  wants  a  violin, 
please,  he  should  have  it." 

"Not  with  my  money." 

"With  mine!  I've  got  enough  saved,  Abrahm. 
Them  three  extra  dollars  right  here  inside  my  own 
waist.  Just  that  much  for  that  cape  down  on 
Grand  Street.  I  wouldn't  have  it  now,  the  way 
they  say  the  wind  blows  up  them — " 

"I  tell  you  the  woman's  crazy— 

"I  feel  it!    I  know  he's  got  talent!    I  know  my 

XI 


HUMORESQUE 

children  so  well.  A — a  father  don't  understand. 
I'm  so  next  to  them.  It's  like  I  can  tell  always 
everything  that  will  happen  to  them — it's  like  a 
pain — somewheres  here — like  in  back  of  my  heart." 

"A  pain  in  the  heart  she  gets." 

"For  my  own  children  I'm  always  a  prophet,  I 
tell  you!  You  think  I  didn't  know  that — that  ter- 
rible night  after  the  pogrom  after  we  got  out  of 
Kief  to  across  the  border!  You  remember,  Abrahm, 
how  I  predicted  it  to  you  then — how  our  Mannie 
would  be  born  too  soon  and — and  not  right  from 
my  suffering !  Did  it  happen  on  the  ship  to  America 
just  the  way  I  said  it  would?  Did  it  happen  just 
exactly  how  I  predicted  our  Izzie  would  break  his 
leg  that  time  playing  on  the  fire-escape?  I  tell  you, 
Abrahm,  I  get  a  real  pain  here  under  my  heart  that 
tells  me  what  comes  to  my  children.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  how  Esther  would  be  the  first  in  her  con- 
firmation-class and  our  baby  Boris  would  be  red- 
headed ?  At  only  five  years,  our  Leon  all  by  himself 
cries  for  a  fiddle — get  it  for  him,  Abrahm — get  it 
for  him!" 

"I  tell  you,  Sarah,  I  got  a  crazy  woman  for  a  wife! 
It  ain't  enough  we  celebrate  eight  birthdays  a  year 
with  one-dollar  presents  each  time  and  copper  goods 
every  day  higher.  It  ain't  enough  that  right 
to-morrow  I  got  a  fifty-dollar  note  over  me  from  Sol 
Ginsberg;  a  four-dollar  present  she  wants  for  a 
child  that  don't  even  know  the  name  of  a  feedle." 

"Leon,  baby,  stop  hollering.  Papa  will  go  back 
and  get  the  fiddle  for  you  now  before  supper.  See, 
mamma's  got  money  here  in  her  waist — " 

12 


HUMORESQUE 

"Papa  will  go  back  for  the  feedle  not — three  dol- 
lars she's  saved  for  herself  he  can  holler  out  of  her 
for  a  feedle!" 

"Abrahm,  he's  screaming  so  he — he'll  have  a  fit." 

"He  should  have  two  fits." 

"Darlink— " 

"I  tell  you  the  way  you  spoil  your  children  it  will 
some  day  come  back  on  us." 

"It's  his  birthday  night,  Abrahm  —  five  years 
since  his  little  head  first  lay  on  the  pillow  next  to 
me." 

"All  right — all  right — drive  me  crazy  because  he's 
got  a  birthday." 

"Leon  baby — if  you  don't  stop  hollering  you'll 
make  yourself  sick.  Abrahm,  I  never  saw  him  like 
this — he's  green — " 

"I'll  green  him.  Where  is  that  old  feedle  from 
Isadore — that  seventy-five-cents  one?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that !  You  broke  it  that  time 
you  got  mad  at  Isadore's  lessons.  I'll  run  down. 
Maybe  it's  with  the  junk  behind  the  store.  I 
never  thought  of  that  fiddle.  Leon  darlink — wait! 
Mamma  '11  run  down  and  look.  Wait,  Leon,  till 
mamma  finds  you  a  fiddle." 

The  raucous  screams  stopped  then,  suddenly,  and 
on  their  very  lustiest  crest,  leaving  an  echoing 
gash  across  silence.  On  willing  feet  of  haste  Mrs. 
Kantor  wound  down  backward  the  high,  ladder-like 
staircase  that  led  to  the  brass-shop. 

Meanwhile  to  a  gnawing  consciousness  of  dinner- 
hour  had  assembled  the  house  of  Kantor.  Attuned 
to  the  intimate  atmosphere  of  the  tenement  which 

13  ' 


HUMORESQUE 

is  so  constantly  rent  with  cry  of  child,  child-bearing, 
delirium,  delirium  tremens,  Leon  Kantor  had  howled 
no  impression  into  the  motley  din  of  things.  There 
were  Isadore,  already  astride  his  chair,  leaning  well 
into  center  table,  for  first  vociferous  tear  at  the 
four-pound  loaf;  Esther,  old  at  chores,  settling  an 
infant  into  the  high  chair,  careful  of  tiny  fingers  in 
lowering  the  wooden  bib. 

"Papa,  Izzie's  eating  first  again." 

"Put  down  that  loaf  and  wait  until  your  mother 
dishes  up,  or  you'll  get  a  potch  you  won't  soon 
forget." 

"Say,  pop- 

" Don't  'say,  pop'  me!  I  don't  want  no  street- 
bum  freshness  from  you!" 

"I  mean,  papa,  there  was  an  up-town  swell  in, 
and  she  bought  one  of  them  seventy-five-cent  candle- 
sticks for  the  first  price." 

"Schlemmil!  Chammer!"  said  Mr.  Kantor,  rinsing 
his  hands  at  the  sink.  "Didn't  I  always  tell  you 
it's  the  first  price,  times  two,  when  you  see  up-town 
business  come  in?  Haven't  I  learned  it  to  you  often 
enough  a  slummer  must  pay  for  her  nosiness?" 

There  entered  then,  on  poor,  shuffling  feet,  Man- 
nie  Kantor,  so  marred  in  the  mysterious  and  ceramic 
process  of  life  that  the  brain  and  the  soul  had 
stayed  back  sooner  than  inhabit  him.  Seventeen 
in  years,  in  the  down  upon  his  face  and  in  growth 
unretarded  by  any  great  nervosity  of  system,  his 
vacuity  of  face  was  not  that  of  childhood,  but  rather 
as  if  his  light  eyes  were  peering  out  from  some 
hinterland  and  wanting  so  terribly  and  so  dumbly 

14 


HUMORESQUE 

to  communicate  what  they  beheld  to  brain-cells 
closed  against  himself. 

At  sight  of  Mannie,  Leon  Kantor,  the  tears  still 
wetly  and  dirtily  down  his  cheeks,  left  off  his  black, 
fierce-eyed  stare  of  waiting  long  enough  to  smile, 
darkly,  it  is  true,  but  sweetly. 

"Giddy-app!"  he  cried.     "Giddy-app!" 

And  then  Mannie,  true  to  habit,  would  scamper 
and  scamper. 

Up  out  of  the  traplike  stair-opening  came  the  head 
of  Mrs.  Kantor,  disheveled  and  a  smudge  of  soot 
across  her  face,  but  beneath  her  arm,  triumphant,  a 
violin  of  one  string  and  a  broken  back. 

"See,  Leon — what  mamma  got!  A  violin!  A 
fiddle!  Look!  The  bow,  too,  I  found.  It  ain't 
much,  baby,  but  it's  a  fiddle." 

"Aw,  ma — that's  my  old  violin.  Gimme.  I  want 
it.  Where'd  you  find—" 

"Hush  up,  Izzie!  This  ain't  yours  no  more. 
See,  Leon,  what  mamma  brought  you.  A  violin!" 

"Now,  you  little  chammer,  you  got  a  feedle,  and 
if  you  ever  let  me  hear  you  holler  again  for  a  feedle, 
by  golly!  if  I  don't—" 

From  his  corner,  Leon  Kantor  reached  out,  taking 
the  instrument  and  fitting  it  beneath  his  chin,  the  bow 
immediately  feeling,  surely  and  lightly,  for  string. 

"Look,  Abrahm,  he  knows  how  to  hold  it!  What 
did  I  tell  you?  A  child  that  never  in  his  life  seen 
a  fiddle,  except  a  beggar's  on  the  street!" 

Little  Esther  suddenly  cantered  down-floor,  clap- 
ping her  chubby  hands. 

' '  Lookie — lookie — Leon '" 


HUMORESQUE 

The  baby  ceased  clattering  his  spoon  against  the 
wooden  bib.  A  silence  seemed  to  shape  itself. 

So  black  and  so  bristly  of  head,  his  little  clawlike 
hands  hovering  over  the  bow,  Leon  Kantor  withdrew 
a  note,  strangely  round  and  given  up  almost  sob- 
bingly  from  the  single  string.     A  note  of  warm 
twining  quality,  like  a  baby's  finger. 

"Leon— darlink!" 

Fumbling  for  string  and  for  notes  the  instrument 
could  not  yield  up  to  him,  the  birdlike  mouth  began 
once  more  to  open  widely  and  terribly  into  the 
orificial  O. 

It  was  then  Abrahm  Kantor  came  down  with  a 
large  hollow  resonance  of  palm  against  that  aperture, 
lifting  his  small  son  and  depositing  him  plop  upon 
the  family  album. 

"Take  that!  By  golly!  one  more  whimper  out  of 
you  and  if  I  don't  make  you  black-and-blue,  birthday 
or  no  birthday!  Dish  up,  Sarah,  quick,  or  I'll  give 
him  something  to  cry  about." 

The  five  pink  candles  had  been  lighted,  burning 
pointedly  and  with  slender  little  smoke  wisps.  Re- 
garding them  owlishly,  the  tears  dried  on  Leon's 
face,  his  little  tongue  licking  up  at  them. 

"Look  how  solemn  he  is,  like  he  was  thinking  of 
something  a  million  miles  away  except  how  lucky 
he  is  he  should  have  a  pink  birthday-cake.  Uh — 
uh — uh!  Don't  you  begin  to  holler  again.  Here, 
I'm  putting  the  feedle  next  to  you.  Uh — uh — 
uh!" 

To  a  meal  plentifully  ladled  out  directly  from 
stove  to  table,  the  Kantor  family  drew  up,  dipping 

16 


HUMORESQUE 

first  into  the  rich  black  soup  of  the  occasion.  All 
except  Mrs.  Kantor. 

"Esther,  you  dish  up.  I'm  going  somewhere. 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

' '  Where  you  going ,  Sarah  ?    Won  'tit  keep  until — ' ' 

But  even  in  the  face  of  query,  Sarah  Kantor  was 
two  flights  down  and  well  through  the  lambent  aisles 
of  the  copper-shop.  Outside,  she  broke  into  run, 
along  two  blocks  of  the  indescribable  bazaar  atmos- 
phere of  Grand  Street,  then  one  block  to  the  right. 

Before  Naftel's  show-window,  a  jet  of  bright  gas 
burned  into  a  jibberwock  land  of  toys.  There  was 
that  in  Sarah  Kantor's  face  that  was  actually  lyrical 
as,  fumbling  at  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  she  entered. 

To  Leon  Kantor,  by  who  knows  what  symphonic 
scheme  of  things,  life  was  a  chromatic  scale,  yield- 
ing up  to  him,  through  throbbing,  living  nerves  of 
sheep-gut,  the  sheerest  semitones  of  man's  emotions. 

When  he  tucked  his  Stradivarius  beneath  his  chin 
the  book  of  life  seemed  suddenly  translated  to  him 
in  melody.  Even  Sarah  Kantor,  who  still  brewed 
for  him,  on  a  small  portable  stove  carried  from 
city  to  city  and  surreptitiously  unpacked  in  hotel 
suites,  the  blackest  of  soups,  and,  despite  his  prot- 
estation, would  incase  his  ears  of  nights  in  an  old 
home-made  device  against  their  flightiness,  would 
oftentimes  bleed  inwardly  at  this  sense  of  his 
isolation. 

There  was  a  realm  into  which  he  went  alone, 
leaving  her  as  detached  as  the  merest  ticket  purchaser 
at  the  box-office. 

17 


HUMORESQUE 

At  seventeen  Leon  Kantor  had  played  before  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe,  the  aching  heads  of 
American  capital,  and  even  the  shaved  head  of  a 
South  Sea  prince.  There  was  a  layout  of  anecdotal 
gifts,  from  the  molar  tooth  of  the  South  Sea  prince 
set  in  a  South  Sea  pearl  to  a  blue-enameled  snuff-box 
incrusted  with  the  rearing-lion  coat-of-arms  of  a 
very  royal  house. 

At  eighteen  came  the  purchase  of  a  king's  Stradi- 
varius  for  a  king's  ransom,  and  acclaimed  by  Sun- 
day supplements  to  repose  of  nights  in  an  ivory 
cradle. 

At  nineteen,  under  careful  auspices  of  press  agent, 
the  ten  singing  digits  of  the  son  of  Abrahm  Kantor 
were  insured  at  ten  thousand  dollars  the  finger. 

At  twenty  he  had  emerged  surely  and  safely  from 
the  perilous  quicksands  which  have  sucked  down 
whole  Lilliputian  worlds  of  infant  prodigies. 

At  twenty-one,  when  Leon  Kantor  played  a 
Sunday-night  concert,  there  was  a  human  queue 
curling  entirely  around  the  square  block  of  the  opera- 
house,  waiting  its  one,  two,  even  three  and  four  hours 
for  the  privilege  of  standing  room  only. 

Usually  these  were  Leon  Kantor's  own  people 
pouring  up  from  the  lowly  lands  of  the  East  Side  to 
the  white  lands  of  Broadway,  parched  for  music, 
these  burning  brethren  of  his — old  men  in  that 
line,  frequently  carrying  their  own  little  folding 
camp-chairs,  not  against  weariness  of  the  spirit,  but 
of  the  flesh;  youth  with  Slavic  eyes  and  cheek-bones. 
These  were  the  six-deep  human  phalanx  which  would 
presently  slant  down  at  him  from  tiers  of  steepest 

18 


HUMORESQUE 

balconies  and  stand  frankly  emotional  and  jammed 
in  the  unreserved  space  behind  the  railing  which 
shut  them  off  from  the  three-dollar  seats  of  the 
reserved. 

At  a  very  special  one  of  these  concerts,  dedicated 
to  the  meager  purses  of  just  these,  and  held  in  New 
York's  super  opera-house,  the  Amphitheater,  a  great 
bowl  of  humanity,  the  metaphor  made  perfect  by 
tiers  of  seats  placed  upon  the  stage,  rose  from 
orchestra  to  dome.  A  gigantic  cup  of  a  Colosseum 
lined  in  stacks  and  stacks  of  faces.  From  the  door 
of  his  dressing-room,  leaning  out,  Leon  Kantor  could 
see  a  great  segment  of  it,  buzzing  down  into  adjust- 
ment, orchestra  twitting  and  tuning  into  it. 

In  the  bare  little  room,  illuminated  by  a  sheaf  of 
roses,  just  arrived,  Mrs.  Kantor  drew  him  back  by 
the  elbow. 

"Leon,  you're  in  a  draught." 

The  amazing  years  had  dealt  kindly  with  Mrs. 
Kantor.  Stouter,  softer,  apparently  even  taller,  she 
was  full  of  small  new  authorities  that  could  shut 
out  cranks,  newspaper  reporters,  and  autograph 
fiends.  A  fitted-over-corsets  black  taffeta  and  a  high 
comb  in  the  graying  hair  had  done  their  best  with 
her.  Pride,  too,  had  left  its  flush  upon  her  cheeks, 
like  two  round  spots  of  fever. 

"Leon,  it's  thirty  minutes  till  your  first  number. 
Close  that  door.  Do  you  want  to  let  your  papa 
and  his  excitement  in  on  you?" 

The  son  of  Sarah  Kantor  obeyed,  leaning  his 
short,  rather  narrow  form  in  silhouette  against  the 
closed  door.  In  spite  of  slimly  dark  evening  clothes 

19 


HUMORESQUE 

worked  out  by  an  astute  manager  to  the  last  detail 
in  boyish  effects,  there  was  that  about  him  which 
defied  long-haired  precedent.  Slimly  and  straightly 
he  had  shot  up  into  an  unmannered,  a  short,  even  a 
bristly-haired  young  manhood,  disqualifying  by  a 
close  shave  for  the  older  school  of  hirsute  virtuosity. 

But  his  nerves  did  not  spare  him.  On  concert 
nights  they  seemed  to  emerge  almost  to  the  surface 
of  him  and  shriek  their  exposure. 

"Just  feel  my  hands,  ma.     Like  ice." 

She  dived  down  into  her  large  silk  what-not  of  a 
reticule. 

"I've  got  your  fleece-lined  gloves  here,  son." 

"No — no!  For  God's  sake — not  those  things! 
No!" 

He  was  back  at  the  door  again,  opening  it  to  a 
slit,  peering  through. 

"They're  bringing  more  seats  on  the  stage.  If 
they  crowd  me  in  I  won't  go  on.  I  can't  play  if  I 
hear  them  breathe.  Hi — out  there — no  more  chairs ! 
Pa!  Hancock—" 

"Leon,  Leon,  ain't  you  ashamed  to  get  so  worked 
up?  Close  that  door.  Have  you  got  a  manager 
who  is  paid  just  to  see  to  your  comfort  ?  When  papa 
comes,  I'll  have  him  go  out  and  tell  Hancock  you 
don't  want  chairs  so  close  to  you.  Leon,  will  you 
mind  mamma  and  sit  down?" 

"It's  a  bigger  house  than  the  royal  concert  in 
Madrid,  ma.  Why,  I  never  saw  anything  like  it! 
It's  a  stampede.  God!  this  is  real — this  is  what 
gets  me,  playing  for  my  own!  I  should  have  given 
a  concert  like  this  three  years  ago.  I'll  do  it  every 

99 


HUMORESQUE 

year  now.  I'd  rather  play  before  them  than  all  the 
crowned  heads  on  earth.  It's  the  biggest  night  of 
my  life.  They're  rioting  out  there,  ma — rioting  to 
get  in." 

"Leon,  Leon,  won't  you  sit  down,  if  mamma  begs 
you  to?" 

He  sat  then,  strumming  with  all  ten  fingers  upon 
his  knees. 

"Try  to  get  quiet,  son.  Count — like  you  always 
do.  One — two — three — " 

"Please,  ma — for  God's  sake — please — please!" 

' '  Look — such  beautiful  roses !  From  Sol  Ginsberg, 
an  old  friend  of  papa's  he  used  to  buy  brasses  from 
eighteen  years  ago.  Six  years  he's  been  away  with 
his  daughter  in  Munich.  Such  a  beautiful  mezzo 
they  say,  engaged  already  for  Metropolitan  next 
season." 

"I  hate  it,  ma,  if  they  breathe  on  my  neck." 

"Leon  darlink,  did  mamma  promise  to  fix  it? 
Have  I  ever  let  you  play  a  concert  when  you  wouldn't 
be  comfortable?" 

His  long,  slim  hands  suddenly  prehensile  and 
cutting  a  streak  of  upward  gesture,  Leon  Kantor 
rose  to  his  feet,  face  whitening. 

"  Do  it  now !  Now,  I  tell  you.  I  won't  have  them 
breathe  on  me.  Do  you  hear  me?  Now!  Now! 
Now!" 

Risen  also,  her  face  soft  and  tremulous  for  him, 
Mrs.  Kantor  put  out  a  gentle,  a  sedative  hand  upon 
his  sleeve. 

"Son,"  she  said,  with  an  edge  of  authority  even 
behind  her  smile,  "don't  holler  at  me!" 

21 


HUMORESQUE 

He  grasped  her  hand  with  his  two  and,  imme- 
diately quiet,  lay  a  close  string  of  kisses  along  it. 

"Mamma,"  he  said,  kissing  again  and  again  into 
the  palm,  "mamma — mamma." 

"I  know,  son;  it's  nerves!" 

"They  eat  me,  ma.  Feel — I'm  like  ice!  I  didn't 
mean  it;  you  know  I  didn't  mean  it!" 

"My  baby,"  she  said,  "my  wonderful  boy,  it's 
like  I  can  never  get  used  to  the  wonder  of  having  you. 
The  greatest  one  of  them  all  should  be  mine — a  plain 
woman's  like  mine!" 

He  teased  her,  eager  to  conciliate  and  to  ride  down 
his  own  state  of  quivering. 

"Now,  ma — now — now — don't  forget  Rimsky!" 

"Rimsky!  A  man  three  times  your  age  who  was 
playing  concerts  before  you  was  born!  Is  that  a 
comparison  ?  From  your  clippings-books  I  can  show 
Rimsky  who  the  world  considers  the  greatest  violin- 
ist. Rimsky  he  rubs  into  me!" 

"All  right,  then,  the  press-clippings,  but  did 
Elsass,  the  greatest  manager  of  them  all,  bring  me  a 
contract  for  thirty  concerts  at  two  thousand  a  con- 
cert? Now  I've  got  you!  Now!" 

She  would  not  meet  his  laughter.  "Elsass!  Be- 
lieve me,  he'll  come  to.  you  yet!  My  boy  should 
worry  if  he  makes  fifty  thousand  a  year  more  or  less. 
Rimsky  should  have  that  honor — for  so  long  as  he 
can  hold  it.  But  he  won't  hold  it  long.  Believe 
me,  I  don't  rest  easy  in  my  bed  till  Elsass  comes 
after  you.  Not  for  so  big  a  contract  like  Rimsky's, 
but  bigger — not  for  thirty  concerts,  but  for  fifty!" 

"Brava!    Brava!    There's    a    woman    for    you. 

22 


HUMORESQUE 

More  money  than  she  knows  what  to  do  with,  and 
then  not  satisfied!" 

She  was  still  too  tremulous  for  banter.  '"Not 
satisfied'?  Why,  Leon,  I  never  stop  praying  my 
thanks  for  you!" 

"All  right,  then,"  he  cried,  laying  his  icy  fingers  on 
her  cheek ;  ' '  to-morrow  we'll  call  a  mignon — a  regular 
old-fashioned  Allen  Street  prayer-party." 
,    "Leon,  you  mustn't  make  fun." 

"Make  fun  of  the  sweetest  girl  in  this  room!" 
"Girl' !  Ah,  if  I  could  only  hold  you  by  me  this 
way,  Leon.  Always  a  boy — with  me — your  poor 
old  mother — your  only  girl.  That's  a  fear  I  suffer 
with,  Leon — to  lose  you  to  a — girl.  That's  how 
selfish  the  mother  of  such  a  wonder-child  like  mine 
can  get  to  be." 

"All  right!  Trying  to  get  me  married  off  again. 
Nice!  Fine!" 

"  Is  it  any  wonder  I  suffer,  son  ?  Twenty-one  years 
to  have  kept  you  by  me  a  child.  A  boy  that  never 
in  his  life  was  out  after  midnight  except  to  catch 
trains.  A  boy  that  never  has  so  much  as  looked  at  a 
girl  and  could  have  looked  at  princesses.  To  have 
kept  you  all  these  years — mine — is  it  any  wonder,  son, 
I  never  stop  praying  my  thanks  for  you?  You  don't 
believe  Hancock,  son,  the  way  he  keeps  always  teasing 
you  that  you  should  have  a — what  he  calls — affair — 
a  love-affair  ?  Such  talk  is  not  nice,  Leon — an  affair !" 

"Love-affair  poppycock!"  said  Leon  Kantor,  lift- 
ing his  mother's  face  and  kissing  her  on  eyes  about 
ready  to  tear.     "Why,  I've  got  something,  ma,  right 
here  in  my  heart  for  you  that — " 
3  23 


HUMORESQUE 

"Leon,  be  careful  your  shirt-front!" 

"That's  so — so  what  you  call  'tender,'  for  my  best 
sweetheart  that  I —  Oh,  love-affair — poppycock!" 

She  would  not  let  her  tears  come. 

"My  boy — my  wonder-boy!" 

"There  goes  the  overture,  ma." 

"Here,  darlink — your  glass  of  water." 

"I  can't  stand  it  in  here;    I'm  suffocating!" 

"Got  your  mute  in  your  pocket,  son?" 

"Yes,  ma;  for  God's  sake,  yes!  Yes!  Don't 
keep  asking  things!" 

"Ain't  you  ashamed,  Leon,  to  be  in  such  an  excite- 
ment! For  every  concert  you  get  worse." 

"The  chairs — they'll  breathe  on  my  neck." 

"Leon,  did  mamma  promise  you  those  chairs 
would  be  moved?" 

"Where's  Hancock?" 

"Say — I'm  grateful  if  he  stays  out.  It  took  me 
enough  work  to  get  this  room  cleared.  You  know 
your  papa  how  he  likes  to  drag  in  the  whole  world  to 
show  you  off — always  just  before  you  play.  The 
minute  he  walks  in  the  room  right  away  he  gets 
everybody  to  trembling  just  from  his  own  excite- 
ments. I  dare  him  this  time  he  should  bring  people. 
No  dignity  has  that  man  got,  the  way  he  brings 
every  one." 

Even  upon  her  words  came  a  rattling  of  door, 
of  door-knob,  and  a  voice  through  the  clamor. 

4 '  Open — quick — Sarah !     Leon ! ' ' 

A  stiffening  raced  over  Mrs.  Kantor,  so  that  she 
sat  rigid  on  her  chair-edge,  lips  compressed,  eye 
darkly  upon  the  shivering  door. 

24 


HUMORESQUE 

"Open— Sarah!" 

With  a  narrowing  glance,  Mrs.  Kantor  laid  to 
her  lips  a  forefinger  of  silence. 

"Sarah,  it's  me!     Quick,  I  say!" 

Then  Leon  Kantor  sprang  up,  the  old  prehensile 
gesture  of  curving  fingers  shooting  up. 

"For  God's  sake,  ma,  let  him  in!  I  can't  stand 
that  infernal  battering." 

"Abrahm,  go  away!  Leon's  got  to  have  quiet 
before  his  concert." 

"Just  a  minute,  Sarah.     Open  quick!" 

With  a  spring  his  son  was  at  the  door,  unlocking 
and  flinging  it  back. 

"Come  in,  pa." 

The  years  had  weighed  heavily  upon  Abrahm 
Kantor  in  avoirdupois  only.  He  was  himself  plus 
eighteen  years,  fifty  pounds,  and  a  new  sleek  pom- 
posity that  was  absolutely  oleaginous.  It  shone 
roundly  in  his  face,  doubling  of  chin,  in  the  bulge 
of  waistcoat,  heavily  gold-chained,  and  in  eyes  that 
behind  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  gave  sparklingly 
forth  his  estate  of  well-being. 

"Abrahm,  didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  dare  to — " 

On  excited  balls  of  feet  that  fairly  bounced  him, 
Abrahm  Kantor  burst  in. 

"Leon — mamma — I  got  out  here  an  old  friend 
—Sol  Ginsberg.  You  remember,  mamma,  from 
brasses — " 

"Abrahm — not  now — " 

"Go  'way  with  your  'not  now'!  I  want  Leon 
should  meet  him.  Sol,  this  is  him — a  little  grown 
up  from  such  a  nebich  like  you  remember  him — nu? 

25 


HUMORESQUE 

Sarah,  you  remember  Sol  Ginsberg?  Say — I  should 
ask  you  if  you  remember  your  right  hand !  Ginsberg 
&  Esel,  the  firm.  This  is  his  girl,  a  five  years'  con- 
tract signed  yesterday — five  hundred  dollars  an 
opera  for  a  beginner — six  r61es — not  bad — MM?" 

"Abrahm,  you  must  ask  Mr.  Ginsberg  please  to 
excuse  Leon  until  after  his  concert — " 

"Shake  hands  with  him,  Ginsberg.  He's  had  his 
hand  shook  enough  in  his  life,  and  by  kings,  to 
shake  it  once  more  with  an  old  bouncer  like  you!" 

Mr.  Ginsberg,  not  unlike  his  colleague  in  rotundi- 
ties, held  out  a  short,  a  dimpled  hand. 

"It's  a  proud  day,"  he  said,  "for  me  to  shake 
the  hands  from  mine  old  friend's  son  and  the  finest 
violinist  livink  to-day.  My  little  daughter — 

"Yes,  yes,  Gina.  Here,  shake  hands  with  him. 
Leon,  they  say  a  voice  like  a  fountain.  Gina  Berg— 
eh,  Ginsberg — is  how  you  stage-named  her?  You 
hear,  mamma,  how  fancy — Gina  Berg?  We  go  hear 
her,  eh?" 

There  was  about  Miss  Gina  Berg,  whose  voice 
could  soar  to  the  tirra-lirra  of  a  lark  and  then 
deepen  to  mezzo,  something  of  the  actual  slimness 
of  the  poor,  maligned  Elsa  so  long  buried  beneath 
the  buxomness  of  divas.  She  was  like  a  little  flower 
that  in  its  crannied  nook  keeps  dewy  longest. 

"How  do  you  do,  Leon  Kantor?" 

There  was  a  whir  through  her  English  of  three 
acquired  languages. 

"How  do  you  do?" 

"We — father  and  I — traveled  once  all  the  way 
from  Brussels  to  Dresden  to  hear  you.  It  was 

36 


HUMORESQUE 

worth  it.  I  shall  never  forget  how  you  played  the 
'Humoresque.'  It  made  me  laugh  and  cry." 

"You  like  Brussels?" 

She  laid  her  little  hand  to  her  heart,  half  closing 
her  eyes. 

"I  will  never  be  so  happy  again  as  with  the  sweet 
little  people  of  Brussels." 

"I,  too,  love  Brussels.  I  studied  there  four  years 
with  Ahrenfest." 

"I  know  you  did.  My  teacher,  Lyndahl,  in  Ber- 
lin, was  his  brother-in-law." 

"You  have  studied  with  Lyndahl?" 

"He  is  my  master." 

"I—      Will  I  some  time  hear  you  sing?" 

"I  am  not  yet  great.  When  I  am  foremost  like 
you,  yes." 

"Gina — Gina  Berg;  that  is  a  beautiful  name  to 
make  famous." 

"You  see  how  it  is  done?  Gins — berg.  Gina 
Berg." 

"Clev— er!" 

They  stood  then  smiling  across  a  chasm  of  the 
diffidence  of  youth,  she  fumbling  at  the  great  fur 
pelt  out  of  which  her  face  flowered  so  dewily. 

"I—  Well — we — we — are  in  the  fourth  box —  I 
guess  we  had  better  be  going —  Fourth  box,  left." 

He  wanted  to  find  words,  but  for  consciousness  of 
self,  could  not. 

"It's  a  wonderful  house  out  there  waiting  for  you, 
Leon  Kantor,  and  you — you're  wonderful,  too!" 

' '  The— flowers— thanks !" 

1 '  My  father,  he  sent  them.  Come,  father — quick !" 

27 


HUMORESQUE 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tight  tensity  seemed  to 
crowd  up  the  little  room. 

"Abrahm — quick — get  Hancock.  That  first  row 
of  chairs — has  got  to  be  moved.  There  he  is,  in  the 
wings.  See  that  the  piano  ain't  dragged  down  too  far ! 
Leon,  got  your  mute  in  your  pocket?  Please,  Mr. 
Ginsberg — you  must  excuse —  Here,  Leon,  is  your 
glass  of  water;  drink  it,  I  say.  Shut  that  door  out 
there,  boy,  so  there  ain't  a  draught  in  the  wings. 
Here,  Leon,  your  violin.  Got  your  neckerchief? 
Listen  how  they're  shouting!  It's  for  you — Leon — 
darlink—  Go!" 

The  center  of  that  vast  human  bowl  which  had 
shouted  itself  out,  slim,  boy  like,  and  in  his  supreme 
isolation,  Leon  Kantor  drew  bow  and  a  first  thin, 
pellucid,  and  perfect  note  into  a  silence  breathless 
to  receive  it. 

Throughout  the  arduous  flexuosities  of  the  Men- 
delssohn E  minor  concerto,  singing,  winding  from 
tonal  to  tonal  climax,  and  out  of  the  slow  movement 
which  is  like  a  tourniquet  twisting  the  heart  into 
the  spirited  allegro  molto  vivace,  it  was  as  if  beneath 
Leon  Kantor's  fingers  the  strings  were  living  vein- 
cords,  youth,  vitality,  and  the  very  foam  of  exuber- 
ance racing  through  them. 

That  was  the  power  of  him.  The  vichy  and  the 
sparkle  of  youth,  so  that,  playing,  the  melody  poured 
round  him  like  wine  and  went  down  seething  and 
singing  into  the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 

Later,  and  because  these  were  his  people  and  be- 
cause they  were  dark  and  Slavic  with  his  Slavic  dark- 
ness, he  played,  as  if  his  very  blood  were  weeping, 

28 


HUMORESQUE 

the  "Kol  Nidre,"  which  is  the  prayer  of  his  race  for 
atonement. 

And  then  the  super-amphitheater,  filled  with  those 
whose  emotions  lie  next  to  the  surface  and  whose 
pores  have  not  been  closed  over  with  a  water-tight 
veneer,  burst  into  its  cheers  and  its  tears. 

There  were  fifteen  recalls  from  the  wings,  Abrahm 
Kantor  standing  counting  them  off  on  his  fingers 
and  trembling  to  receive  the  Stradivarius.  Then, 
finally,  and  against  the  frantic  negative  pantomime 
of  his  manager,  a  scherzo,  played  so  lacily  that  it 
swept  the  house  in  lightest  laughter. 

When  Leon  Kantor  finally  completed  his  pro- 
gram they  were  loath  to  let  him  go,  crowding 
down  the  aisles  upon  him,  applauding  up,  down, 
around  him  until  the  great  disheveled  house  was 
like  the  roaring  of  a  sea,  and  he  would  laugh  and 
throw  out  his  arm  in  widespread  helplessness,  and 
always  his  manager  in  the  background  gesticulating 
against  too  much  of  his  precious  product  for  the 
money,  ushers  already  slamming  up  chairs,  his 
father's  arms  out  for  the  Stradivarius,  and,  deepest 
in  the  gloom  of  the  wings,  Sarah  Kantor,  in  a  rocker 
especially  dragged  out  for  her,  and  from  the  depths 
of  the  black-silk  reticule,  darning  his  socks. 

"Bravo  —  bravo!  Give  us  the  'Humoresque' 
— Chopin  Nocturne  —  Polonaise —  'Humoresque.' 
Bravo — bravo ! ' ' 

And  even  as  they  stood,  hatted  and  coated,  im- 
portuning and  pressing  in  upon  him,  and  with  a  wisp 
of  a  smile  to  the  fourth  left  box,  Leon  Kantor  played 
them  the  "Humoresque"  of  Dvorak,  skedaddling, 

29 


HUMORESQUE 

plucking,  quirking — that  laugh  on  life  with  a  tear 
behind  it.  Then  suddenly,  because  he  could  escape 
no  other  way,  rushed  straight  back  for  his  dressing- 
room,  bursting  in  upon  a  flood  of  family  already 
there:  Isadore  Kantor,  blue-shaved,  aquiline,  and 
already  graying  at  the  temples;  his  five-year-old  son, 
Leon;  a  soft  little  pouter-pigeon  of  a  wife,  too, 
enormous  of  bust,  in  glittering  ear-drops  and  a  wrist 
watch  of  diamonds  half  buried  in  chubby  wrist; 
Miss  Esther  Kantor,  pink  and  pretty;  Rudolph; 
Boris,  not  yet  done  with  growing-pains. 

At  the  door  Miss  Kantor  met  her  brother,  her 
eyes  as  sweetly  moist  as  her  kiss. 

"Leon  darling,  you  surpassed  even  yourself!" 

"Quit  crowding,  children.  Let  him  sit  down. 
Here,  Leon,  let  mamma  give  you  a  fresh  collar. 
Look  how  the  child's  perspired.  Pull  down  that 
window,  Boris.  Rudolph,  don't  let  no  one  in.  I 
give  you  my  word  if  to-night  wasn't  as  near  as  I  ever 
came  to  seeing  a  house  go  crazy.  Not  even  that 
time  in  Milan,  darlink,  when  they  broke  down  the 
doors,  was  it  like  to-night — " 

"Ought  to  seen,  ma,  the  row  of  police  outside — 

"Hush  up,  Roody!  Don't  you  see  your  brother 
is  trying  to  get  his  breath?" 

From  Mrs.  Isadore  Kantor:  "You  should  have 
seen  the  balconies,  mother.  Isadore  and  I  went  up 
just  to  see  the  jam." 

"Six  thousand  dollars  in  the  house  to-night,  if 
there  was  a  cent,"  said  Isadore  Kantor. 

' '  Hand  me  my  violin,  please,  Esther.  I  must  have 
scratched  it,  the  way  they  pushed," 

30 


HUMORESQUE 

"No,  son,  you  didn't.  I've  already  rubbed  it  up. 
Sit  quiet,  darlink!" 

He  was  limply  white,  as  if  the  vitality  had  flowed 
out  of  him. 

"God!  wasn't  it — tremendous?" 

"Six  thousand,  if  there  was  a  cent,"  repeated 
Isadore  Kantor.  "More  than  Rimsky  ever  played 
to  in  his  life!" 

"Oh,  Izzie,  you  make  me  sick,  always  counting — 
counting!" 

"Your  sister's  right,  Isadore.  You  got  nothing 
to  complain  of  if  there  was  only  six  hundred  in  the 
house.  A  boy  whose  riddle  has  made  already  enough 
to  set  you  up  in  such  a  fine  business,  his  brother 
Boris  in  such  a  fine  college,  automobiles — style — 
and  now  because  Vladimir  Rimsky,  three  times  his 
age,  gets  signed  up  with  Elsass  for  a  few  thousand 
more  a  year,  right  away  the  family  gets  a  long  face — 

"Ma,  please!     Isadore  didn't  mean  it  that  way!" 

"Pa's  knocking,  ma!     Shall  I  let  him  in?" 

"Let  him  in,  Roody.  I'd  like  to  know  what  good 
it  will  do  to  try  to  keep  him  out." 

In  an  actual  rain  of  perspiration,  his  tie  slid  well 
under  one  ear,  Abrahm  Kantor  burst  in,  mouthing 
the  words  before  his  acute  state  of  strangulation 
would  let  them  out. 

' '  Elsass — it's  Elsass  outside !  He — wants — to  sign 
— Leon — fifty  concerts — coast  to  coast — two  thou- 
sand— next  season!  He's  got  the  papers — already 
drawn  up — the  pen  outside  waiting— 

"Abrahm!" 

"Pa!" 

31 


HUMORESQUE 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  Isadore  Kantor,  a 
poppiness  of  stare  and  a  violent  redness  set  in,  sud- 
denly turned  to  his  five-year-old  son,  sticky  with 
lollipop,  and  came  down  soundly  and  with  smack 
against  the  infantile,  the  slightly  outstanding  and 
unsuspecting  ear. 

"Momser!"  he  cried.  "Chammer!  Lump!  Ganef! 
You  hear  that?  Two  thousand!  Two  thousand! 
Didn't  I  tell  you — didn't  I  tell  you  to  practise?" 

Even  as  Leon  Kantor  put  pen  to  this  princely 
document,  Franz  Ferdinand  of  Serbia,  the  assassin's 
bullet  cold,  lay  dead  in  state,  and  let  slip  were  the 
dogs  of  war. 

In  the  next  years,  men,  forty  deep,  were  to  die  in 
piles;  hayricks  of  fields  to  become  human  hayricks 
of  battle-fields;  Belgium  disemboweled,  her  very 
entrails  dragging,  to  find  all  the  civilized  world  her 
champion,  and  between  the  poppies  of  Flanders, 
crosses,  thousand  upon  thousand  of  them,  to  mark 
the  places  where  the  youth  of  her  allies  fell,  avenging 
outrage.  Seas,  even  when  calmest,  were  to  become 
terrible,  and  men's  heart-beats,  a  bit  sluggish  with 
the  fatty  degeneration  of  a  sluggard  peace,  to 
quicken  and  then  to  throb  with  the  rat-a-tat-tat, 
the  rat-a-tat-tat  of  the  most  peremptory,  the  most 
reverberating  call  to  arms  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

In  June,  1917,  Leon  Kantor,  answering  that  rat-a- 
tat-tat,  enlisted. 

In  November,  honed  by  the  interim  of  training  to 
even  a  new  leanness,  and  sailing-orders  heavy  and 
light  in  his  heart,  Lieutenant  Kantor,  on  two  days' 

32 


HUMORESQUE 

home-leave,    took   leave   of   home,   which  can  be 
cruelest  when  it  is  tenderest. 

Standing  there  in  the  expensive,  the  formal,  the 
enormous  French  parlor  of  his  up-town  apartment 
de  luxe,  from  not  one  of  whose  chairs  would  his 
mother's  feet  touch  floor,  a  wall  of  living  flesh,  mor- 
tared in  blood,  was  throbbing  and  hedging  him  in. 

He  would  pace  up  and  down  the  long  room,  heavy 
with  the  faces  of  those  who  mourn,  with  a  laugh  too 
ready,  too  facetious,  in  his  fear  for  them. 

"Well,  well,  what  is  this,  anyway,  a  wake? 
Where's  the  coffin?  Who's  dead?" 

His  sister-in-law  shot  out  her  plump,  watch- 
encrusted  wrist.  "Don't,  Leon!"  she  cried.  "Such 
talk  is  a  sin!  It  might  come  true." 

"Rosie-posy-butter-ball,"  he  said,  pausing  beside 
her  chair  to  pinch  her  deeply  soft  cheek.  "Cry-baby- 
roly-poly,  you  can't  shove  me  off  in  a  wooden  kimono 
that  way." 

From  his  place  before  the  white-and-gold  mantel, 
staring  steadfastly  at  the  floor  tiling,  Isadore  Kantor 
turned  suddenly,  a  bit  whiter  and  older  at  the 
temples. 

"I  don't  get  your  comedy,  Leon." 

"Wooden  kimono' — Leon?" 

"That's  the  way  the  fellows  at  camp  joke  about 
coffins,  ma.  I  didn't  mean  anything  but  fun! 
Great  Scott!  Can't  any  one  take  a  joke!" 

"O  God!  O  God!"  His  mother  fell  to  swaying 
softly,  hugging  herself  against  shivering. 

"Did  you  sign  over  power  of  attorney  to  pa, 
Leon?" 

33 


HUMORESQUE 

"All  fixed,  Izzie." 

"I'm  so  afraid,  son,  you  don't  take  with  you 
enough  money  in  your  pockets.  You  know  how  you 
lose  it.  If  only  you  would  let  mamma  sew  that  little 
bag  inside  your  uniform,  with  a  little  place  for  bills 
and  a  little  place  for  the  asafcetida!" 

"Now,  please,  ma — please!  If  I  needed  more, 
wouldn't  I  take  it?  Wouldn't  I  be  a  pretty  joke 
among  the  fellows,  tied  up  in  that  smelling  stuff! 
Orders  are  orders,  ma.  I  know  what  to  take  and 
what  not  to  take." 

"Please,  Leon,  don't  get  mad  at  me,  but  if  you 
will  let  me  put  in  your  suit-case  just  one  little  box 
of  that  salve,  for  your  finger-tips,  so  they  don't 
crack—' 

Pausing  as  he  paced  to  lay  cheek  to  her  hair,  he 
patted  her.  "Three  boxes,  if  you  want.  Now, 
how's  that?" 

"And  you  won't  take  it  out  so  soon  as  my  back 
is  turned?" 

"Cross  my  heart." 

His  touch  seemed  to  set  her  trembling  again,  all 
her  illy  concealed  emotions  rushing  up.  "I  can't 
stand  it!  Can't!  Can't!  Take  my  life— take  my 
blood,  but  don't  take  my  boy — don't  take  my 
boy—" 

"Mamma,  mamma,  is  that  the  way  you're  going  to 
begin  all  over  again,  after  your  promise?" 

She  clung  to  him,  heaving  against  the  rising  storm 
of  sobs.  "I  can't  help  it — can't!  Cut  out  »iy  heart 
from  me,  but  let  me  keep  my  boy  —  my  wonder- 
boy—" 

34 


HUMORESQUE 

"Oughtn't  she  be  ashamed  of  herself?  Just  listen 
to  her,  Esther!  What  will  we  do  with  her?  Talks 
like  she  had  a  guarantee  I  wasn't  coming  back. 
Why,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  by  spring  I  wasn't 
tuning  up  again  for  a  coast-to-coast  tour — " 

"Spring!  That  talk  don't  fool  me.  Without  my 
boy,  the  springs  in  my  life  are  over — " 

"Why,  ma,  you  talk  like  every  soldier  who  goes 
to  war  was  killed!  There's  only  the  smallest  per- 
centage of  them  die  in  battle — 

"'Spring,'  he  says;  'spring'!  Crossing  the  seas 
from  me!  To  live  through  months  with  that  sea 
between  us — my  boy  maybe  shot — my — " 

"Mamma,  please!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Leon;  I'm  not  one  of  those  fine 
mothers  that  can  be  so  brave.  Cut  out  my  heart, 
but  leave  my  boy!  My  wonder-boy — my  child  I 
prayed  for!" 

"There's  other  mothers,  ma,  with  sons!" 

"Yes,  but  not  wonder-sons!  A  genius  like  you 
could  so  easy  get  excused,  Leon.  Give  it  up. 
Genius  it  should  be  the  last  to  be  sent  to — the 
slaughter- pen.  Leon  darlink — don't  go!" 

"Ma,  ma — you  don't  mean  what  you're  saying. 
You  wouldn't  want  me  to  reason  that  way!  You 
wouldn't  want  me  to  hide  behind  my — violin." 

"I  would!  Would!  You  should  wait  for  the 
draft.  With  my  Roody  and  even  my  baby  Boris 
enlisted,  ain't  it  enough  for  one  mother?  Since  they 
got  to  be  in  camp,  all  right,  I  say,  let  them  be  there, 
if  my  heart  breaks  for  it,  but  not  my  wonder-child! 
You  can  get  exemption,  Leon,  right  away  for  the 

35 


HUMORESQUE 

asking.  Stay  with  me,  Leon!  Don't  go  away! 
The  people  at  home  got  to  be  kept  happy  with 
music.  That's  being  a  soldier,  too,  playing  their 
troubles  away.  Stay  with  me,  Leon!  Don't  go 
leave  me — don't — don't — " 

He  suffered  her  to  lie,  tear-drenched,  back  into 
his  arms,  holding  her  close  in  his  compassion  for 
her,  his  own  face  twisting. 

"God!  ma,  this  —  this  is  awful!  Please  —  you 
make  us  ashamed — all  of  us!  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  Esther,  come  quiet  her — for  God's  sake  quiet 
her!" 

From  her  place  in  that  sobbing  circle  Esther  Kan- 
tor  crossed  to  kneel  beside  her  mother. 

"Mamma  darling,  you're  killing  yourself.  What 
if  every  family  went  on  this  way?  You  want  papa 
to  come  in  and  find  us  all  crying?  Is  this  the  way 
you  want  Leon  to  spend  his  last  hour  with  us — " 

"Oh,  God— God!" 

"I  mean  his  last  hour  until  he  comes  back,  darling. 
Didn't  you  just  hear  him  say,  darling,  it  may  be  by 
spring?" 

"'Spring' — 'spring' — never  no  more  springs  for 
me—" 

"Just  think,  darling,  how  proud  we  should  be! 
Our  Leon,  who  could  so  easily  have  been  excused, 
not  even  to  wait  for  the  draft." 

"It's  not  too  late  yet — please — Leon — " 

"Our  Roody  and  Boris  both  in  camp,  too,  training 
to  serve  their  country.  Why,  mamma,  we  ought 
to  be  crying  for  happiness.  As  Leon  says,  surely 
the  Kan  tor  family,  who  fled  out  of  Russia  to  escape 

36 


HUMORESQUE 

massacre,  should  know  how  terrible  slavery  can  be. 
That's  why  we  must  help  our  boys,  mamma,  in  their 
fight  to  make  the  world  free!  Right,  Leon?"  trying 
to  smile  with  her  red-rimmed  eyes. 

"We've  got  no  fight  with  no  one!  Not  a  child  of 
mine  was  ever  raised  to  so  much  as  lift  a  finger  against 
no  one.  We've  got  no  fight  with  no  one!" 

"We  have  got  a  fight  with  some  one!  With 
autocracy!  Only  this  time  it  happens  to  be  Hun- 
nish  autocracy.  You  should  know  it,  mamma — oh, 
you  should  know  it  deeper  down  in  you  than  any 
of  us,  the  fight  our  family  right  here  has  got  with 
autocracy!  We  should  be  the  first  to  want  to 
avenge  Belgium!" 

"Leon's  right,  mamma  darling,  the  way  you  and 
papa  were  beaten  out  of  your  country— 

"There's  not  a  day  in  your  life  you  don't  curse 
it  without  knowing  it!  Every  time  we  three  boys 
look  at  your  son  and  our  brother  Mannie,  born  an 
— an  imbecile — because  of  autocracy,  we  know  what 
we're  fighting  for.  We  know.  You  know,  too. 
Look  at  him  over  there,  even  before  he  was  born, 
ruined  by  autocracy!  Know  what  I'm  fighting  for? 
Why,  this  whole  family  knows!  What's  music, 
what's  art,  what's  life  itself  in  a  world  without  free- 
dom? Every  time,  ma,  you  get  to  thinking  we've 
got  a  fight  with  no  one,  all  you  have  to  do  is  look 
at  our  poor  Mannie.  He's  the  answer.  He's  the 
answer." 

In  a  foaming  sort  of  silence,  Mannie  Kantor 
smiled  softly  from  his  chair  beneath  the  pink-and- 
gold  shade  of  the  piano-lamp.  The  heterogeneous 

37 


HUMORESQUE 

sounds  of  women  weeping  had  ceased.  Straight  in 
her  chair,  her  great  shelf  of  bust  heaving,  sat  Rosa 
Kantor,  suddenly  dry  of  eye;  Isadore  Kantor  head 
up.  Erect  now,  and  out  from  the  embrace  of  her 
daughter,  Sarah  looked  up  at  her  son. 

"What  time  do  you  leave,  Leon?"  she  asked, 
actually  firm  of  lip. 

"Any  minute,  ma.     Getting  late." 

This  time  she  pulled  her  lips  to  a  smile,  waggling 
her  forefinger. 

"Don't  let  them  little  devils  of  French  girls  fall 
in  love  with  my  dude  in  his  uniform." 

Her  pretense  at  pleasantry  was  almost  more  than 
he  could  bear. 

"Hear!  Hear:  Our  mother  thinks  I'm  a  regular 
lady-killer !  Hear  that,  Esther  ?"  pinching  her  cheek. 

"You  are,  Leon — only — only,  you  don't  know  it!" 

"Don't  you  bring  down  too  many  beaux  while 
I'm  gone,  either,  Miss  Kantor!" 

"I— won't,  Leon." 

Sotto  voce  to  her:  "Remember,  Esther,  while  I'm 
gone,  the  royalties  from  the  discaphone  records  are 
yours.  I  want  you  to  have  them  for  pin-money  and 
— maybe  a  dowry?" 

She  turned  from  him.     "Don't,  Leon — don't — " 

"I  like  him!  Nice  fellow,  but  too  slow!  Why, 
if  I  were  in  his  shoes  I'd  have  popped  long  ago." 

She  smiled  with  her  lashes  dewy. 

There  entered  then,  in  a  violet-scented  little  whirl, 
Miss  Gina  Berg,  rosy  with  the  sting  of  a  winter's 
night,  and,  as  usual,  swathed  in  the  high-napped  furs. 

"Gina!" 

38 


HUMORESQUE 

She  was  for  greeting  every  one,  a  wafted  kiss  to 
Mrs.  Kantor,  and  then,  arms  wide,  a  great  bunch 
of  violets  in  one  outstretched  hand,  her  glance 
straight,  sure,  and  sparkling  for  Leon  Kantor. 

' '  Surprise — everybody — surprise !" 

"Why,  Gina — we  read — we  thought  you  were 
singing  in  Philadelphia  to-night!" 

"So  did  I,  Esther  darling,  until  a  little  bird 
whispered  to  me  that  Lieutenant  Kantor  was  home 
on  farewell  leave." 

He  advanced  to  her  down  the  great  length  of  room, 
lowering  his  head  over  her  hand,  his  puttee-clad 
legs  clicking  together.  "You  mean,  Miss  Gina — 
Gina — you  didn't  sing?" 

"Of  course  I  didn't!  Hasn't  every  prima  donna  a 
larynx  to  hide  behind?"  She  lifted  off  her  fur  cap, 
spilling  curls. 

"Well,  I— I'll  be  hanged!"  said  Lieutenant  Kantor, 
his  eyes  lakes  of  her  reflected  loveliness. 

She  let  her  hand  linger  in  his.  ' '  Leon — you — really 
going  ?  How — terrible !  How — how — wonderful !" 

"How  wonderful — your  coming!" 

' '  I —    You  think  it  was  not  nice  of  me — to  come  ?" 

"I  think  it  was  the  nicest  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened in  the  world." 

"All  the  way  here  in  the  train  I  kept  saying, 
'Crazy — crazy — running  to  tell  Leon — Lieutenant — 
Kantor  good-by — when  you  haven't  even  seen  him 
three  times  in  three  years — ' 

"But  each — each  of  those  three  times  we — we've 
remembered,  Gina." 

"But  that's  how  I  feel  toward  all  the  boys,  Leon — 
4  39 


HUMORESQUE 

our  fighting  boys — just  like  flying  to  them  to  kiss 
them  each  one  good-by." 

"Come  over,  Gina.  You'll  be  a  treat  to  our 
mother.  I —  Well,  I'm  hanged!  All  the  way  from 
Philadelphia!" 

There  was  even  a  sparkle  to  talk,  then,  and  a  let- 
up of  pressure.  After  a  while  Sarah  Kantor  looked 
up  at  her  son,  tremulous,  but  smiling. 

"Well,  son,  you  going  to  play — for  your  old 
mother  before — you  go?  It  '11  be  many  a  month 
• — spring — maybe  longer,  before  I  hear  my  boy  again 
except  on  the  discaphone." 

He  shot  a  quick  glance  to  his  sister.  "Why,  I — I 
don't  know.  I — I'd  love  it,  ma.  if — if  you  think, 
Esther,  I'd  better." 

"You  don't  need  to  be  afraid  of  me,  darlink. 
There's  nothing  can  give  me  the  strength  to  bear — 
what's  before  me  like — like  my  boy's  music.  That's 
my  life,  his  music." 

"Why,  yes;  if  mamma  is  sure  she  feels  that  way, 
play  for  us,  Leon." 

He  was  already  at  the  instrument,  where  it  lay, 
swathed,  atop  the  grand  piano.  "What '11  it  be, 
folks?" 

"Something  to  make  ma  laugh,  Leon — something 
light,  something  funny." 

"Humoresque,'"  he  said,  with  a  quick  glance  for 
Miss  Berg. 

"'Humoresque,'"  she  said,  smiling  back  at  him. 

He  capered  through,  cutting  and  playful  of  bow, 
the  melody  of  Dvorak's,  which  is  as  ironic  as  a 
grinning  mask. 

40 


HUMORESQUE 

Finished,  he  smiled  at  his  parent,  her  face  still 
untearful. 

"How's  that?" 

She  nodded.  "It's  like  life,  son,  that  piece. 
Crying  to  hide  its  laughing  and  laughing  to  hide  its 
crying." 

"Play  that  new  piece,  Leon — the  one  you  set  to 
music.  You  know.  The  words  by  that  young  boy 
in  the  war  who  wrote  such  grand  poetry  before  he 
was  killed.  The  one  that  always  makes  poor  Mannie 
laugh.  Play  it  for  him,  Leon." 

Her  plump  little  unlined  face  innocent  of  fault, 
Mrs.  Isadore  Kantor  ventured  her  request,  her 
smile  tired  with  tears. 

"No,  no — Rosa — not  now!  Ma  wouldn't  want 
that!" 

"I  do,  son ;  I  do !  Even  Mannie  should  have  his 
share  of  good-by." 

To  Gina  Berg:  "They  want  me  to  play  that  little 
arrangement  of  mine  from  Allan  Seegar's  poem. 
'I  Have  a  Rendezvous  .  .  .  ." 

"It — it's  beautiful,  Leon.  I  was  to  have  sung  it 
on  my  program  to-night — only,  I'm  afraid  you 
had  better  not — here — now — " 

"Please,  Leon!  Nothing  you  play  can  ever  make 
me  as  sad  as  it  makes  me  glad.  Mannie  should 
have,  too,  his  good-by." 

"All  right,  then,  ma,  if — if  you're  sure  you  want 
it .  Will  you  sing  it ,  Gina  ? ' ' 

She  had  risen.     "Why,  yes,  Leon." 

She  sang  it  then,  quite  purely,  her  hands  clasped 
simply  together  and  her  glance  mistily  off,  the 


HUMORESQUE 

beautiful,  the  heroic,  the  lyrical  prophecy  of  a  soldier- 
poet  and  a  poet-soldier : 

"But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  sob  burst  out, 
stifled,  from  Esther  Kantor,  this  time  her  mother 
holding  her  in  arms  that  were  strong. 

"That,  Leon,  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  your 
compositions.  What  does  it  mean,  son,  that  word, 
'rondy-voo'?" 

"Why,  I — I  don't  exactly  know.  A  rendezvous 
— it's  a  sort  of  meeting,  an  engagement,  isn't  it, 
Miss  Gina?  Gina?  You're  up  on  languages.  As 
if  I  had  an  appointment  to  meet  you  some  place — 
at  the  opera-house,  for  instance." 

"That's  it,  Leon — an  engagement." 

"Have  I  an  engagement  with  you,  Gina?" 

She  let  her  lids  droop.  "Oh,  how — how  I  hope 
you  have,  Leon." 

"When?" 

"In  the  spring?" 

"That's  it— in  the  spring." 

Then  they  smiled,  these  two,  who  had  never 
felt  more  than  the  merest  butterfly  wings  of  love 
brushing  them,  light  as  lashes.  No  word  between 
them,  only  an  unfinished  sweetness,  waiting  to  be 
linked  up. 

Suddenly  there  burst  in  Abrahm  Kantor,  in  a 
carefully  rehearsed  gale  of  bluster. 

42 


HUMORESQUE 

"Quick,  Leon!  I  got  the  car  down-stairs.  Just 
fifteen  minutes  to  make  the  ferry.  Quick!  The 
sooner  we  get  him  over  there  the  sooner  we  get  him 
back!  I'm  right,  mamma?  Now,  now!  No  water- 
works !  Get  your  brother's  suit-case,  Isadore.  Now, 
now!  No  nonsense!  Quick — quick — " 

With  a  deftly  manceuvered  round  of  good-bys, 
a  grip-laden  dash  for  the  door,  a  throbbing  mo- 
ment of  turning  back  when  it  seemed  as  though 
Sarah  Kantor's  arms  could  not  unlock  their  dead- 
lock of  him,  Leon  Kantor  was  out  and  gone,  the 
group  of  faces  point-etched  into  the  silence  behind 
him. 

The  poor,  mute  face  of  Mannie,  laughing  softly. 
Rosa  Kantor  crying  into  her  hands.  Esther,  grief- 
crumpled,  but  rich  in  the  enormous  hope  of  youth. 
The  sweet  Gina,  to  whom  the  waiting  months  had 
already  begun  their  reality. 

Not  so  Sarah  Kantor.  In  a  bedroom  adjoining, 
its  high-ceilinged  vastness  as  cold  as  a  cathedral 
to  her  lowness  of  stature,  sobs  dry  and  terrible  were 
rumbling  up  from  her,  only  to  dash  against  lips 
tightly  restraining  them. 

On  her  knees  beside  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  un- 
wrapping it  from  swaddling-clothes,  she  withdrew 
what  at  best  had  been  a  sorry  sort  of  fiddle. 

Cracked  of  back  and  solitary  of  string,  it  was  as 
if  her  trembling  arms,  raising  it  above  her  head, 
would  make  of  themselves  and  her  swaying  body  the 
tripod  of  an  altar. 

The  old  twisting  and  prophetic  pain  was  behind 
her  heart.  Like  the  painted  billows  of  music  that 

43 


HUMORESQUE 

the  old  Italian  masters  loved  to  do,  there  wound  and 
wreathed  about  her  clouds  of  song: 

But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  -first  meadow-flowers  appear. 


OATS    FOR    THE    WOMAN 

THAT  women  wno  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin 
might  know  the  feel  of  fabrics  so  cunningly 
devised  that  they  lay  to  the  flesh  like  the  inner 
petals  of  buds,  three  hundred  and  fifty  men,  women, 
and  children  contrived,  between  strikes,  to  make 
the  show-rooms  of  the  Kessler  Costume  Company, 
Incorporated,  a  sort  of  mauve  and  mirrored  Delphi 
where  buyers  from  twenty  states  came  to  invoke 
forecast  of  the  mood  of  skirts,  the  caprice  of  sleeves, 
and  the  rumored  flip  to  the  train.  Before  these 
flips  and  moods,  a  gigantic  industry  held  semi- 
annual pause,  destinies  of  lace-factories  trembling 
before  a  threatened  season  of  strictly  tailor-mades, 
velvet-looms  slowing  at  the  shush  of  taffeta.  When 
woman  would  be  sleazy,  petticoat  manufacturers 
went  overnight  into  an  oblivion  from  which  there 
might  or  might  not  be  returning.  The  willow 
plume  waved  its  day,  making  and  unmaking 
merchants. 

Destiny  loves  thus  to  spring  from  acorn  begin- 
nings. Helen  smiled,  and  Troy  fell.  Roast  pork, 
and  I  doubt  not  then  and  there  the  apple  sauce, 
became  a  national  institution  because  a  small  boy 
burnt  his  fingers. 

45 


HUMORESQUE 

That  is  why,  out  from  the  frail  love  of  women  for 
the  flesh  and  its  humors,  and  because  for  the  webby 
cling  of  chiffon  too  often  no  price  is  too  high,  the 
Kessler  Costume  Company  employed,  on  the  fac- 
tory side  of  the  door,  the  three  hundred  and  fifty 
sewers  and  cutters,  not  one  of  whose  monthly 
wage  could  half  buy  the  real-lace  fichu  or  the  painted- 
chifTon  frock  of  his  own  handiwork. 

On  the  show-room  side  of  the  door,  painted 
mauve  within  and  not  without,  mannequins,  so 
pink  finger-tipped,  so  tilted  of  instep,  and  so  bred 
in  the  thrust  to  the  silhouette,  trailed  these  sleazy 
products  of  thick  fingers  across  mauve-colored  car- 
pet and  before  the  appraising  eyes  of  twenty  states. 

Often  as  not,  smoke  rose  in  that  room  from  the 
black  cigar  of  the  Omaha  Store,  Omaha,  or  Ladies' 
Wear,  Cleveland.  In  season,  and  particularly  dur- 
ing the  frenzied  dog-days  of  August,  when  the  fate 
of  the  new  waist-line  or  his  daring  treatment  of 
cloth  of  silver  hung  yet  in  the  balance,  and  the 
spirit  of  Detroit  must  be  browbeaten  by  the  dictum 
of  the  sleeveless  thing  in  evening  frocks,  Leon 
Kessler  himself  smoked  a  day-long  chain  of  ciga- 
rettes, lighting  one  off  the  other. 

In  the  model-room,  a  long,  narrow  slit,  roaringly 
ventilated  by  a  whirling  machine,  lined  in  frocks 
suspended  from  hangers,  and  just  wide  enough  for 
two  very  perfect  thirty-sixes  to  stand  abreast, 
August  fell  heavily.  So  heavily  that  occasionally  a 
cloak-model,  her  lot  to  show  next  December's  con- 
ceit in  theater  wraps,  fainted  on  the  show-dais ;  or  a 
cloth-of-gold  evening  gown,  donned  for  the  twentieth 

46 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

time  that  sweltering  day,  would  suddenly,  with  its 
model,  crumple,  a  glittering  huddle,  to  the  floor. 

Upon  Miss  Hattie  Becker,  who  within  the  narrow 
slit  had  endured  eight  of  these  Augusts  with  only 
two  casual  faints  and  a  swoon  or  two  nipped  in  the 
bud,  this  ninth  August  came  in  so  furiously  that, 
sliding  out  of  her  sixth  showing  of  a  cloth-of-silver 
and  blue-fox  opera  wrap,  a  shivering  that  amounted 
practically  to  chill  took  hold  of  her. 

"Br-r-r!"  she  said,  full  of  all  men's  awe  at  the 
carbon-dioxide  paradox.  "I'm  so  hot  I'm  cold!" 

Miss  Clarice  Delehanty  slid  out  of  a  shower  of 
tulle-of-gold  dancing-frock  and  into  an  Avenue  gown 
of  rough  serge.  The  tail  of  a  very  arched  eyebrow 
threatened,  and  then  ran  down  in  a  black  rill. 

"If  Niagara  Falls  was  claret  lemonade, 
You'd  see  me  beat  it  to  a  watery  grave. 

"That  '11  be  enough  canary- talk  out  of  you, 
Clare.  Hand  me  my  shirt-waist  there  off  the  hook." 

"Didn't  Kess  say  we  had  to  show  Keokuk  the  line 
before  lunch?" 

"If  the  King  of  England  was  buying  ermine  sport 
coats  this  morning,  I  wouldn't  show  'em  before  I  had 
a  cold  cut  and  a  long  drink  in  me.  Hurry !  Hand 
me  my  waist,  Clare,  before  the  girls  come  in  from 
showing  the  bridesmaid  line." 

Miss  Delehanty  flung  the  garment  down  the  nar- 
row length  of  the  room. 

"Minneapolis  don't  know  it,  but  after  this  show- 
ing he's  going  to  blow  me  to  the  frappiest  little 
lunch  on  the  Waldorf  roof." 

47 


HUMORESQUE 

Miss  Becker  buttoned  her  flimsy  blouse  with  three 
pearl  beads  down  its  front,  wiping  constantly  at  a 
constantly  dampening  brow. 

"You'd  shove  over  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  if  you 
thought  she  had  her  foot  on  a  meal  ticket." 

"Yes;  and  if  I  busted  her,  you  could  build  a  new 
one  on  the  lunch  money  you've  saved  in  your  time." 

"Waldorf !  You've  got  a  fine  chance  with  Minne- 
apolis. You  mean  the  Automat,  and  two  spoons  for 
the  ice-cream." 

Miss  Delehanty  adjusted  a  highly  eccentric  hat, 
a  small  green  velvet,  outrageously  tilted  off  the  rear 
of  its  bandeau,  and  a  wide  black  streamer  flowing 
down  over  one  shoulder.  It  was  the  match  to  the 
explosive  effect  of  the  trotteur  gown.  She  was 
Fashion's  humoresque,  except  that  Fashion  has  no 
sense  of  humor.  Very  presently  Minneapolis  would 
appraise  her  at  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  as  is. 
Miss  Delehanty  herself  came  cheaper. 

"Say,  Hattie,  don't  let  being  an  old  man's  darling 
go  to  your  head.  The  grandchildren  may  issue  an 
injunction." 

A  flare  of  crimson  rushed  immediately  over  Miss 
Becker's  face,  spreading  down  into  her  neck. 

"You  let  him  alone!  He's  a  darn  sight  better 
than  anything  I've  seen  you  girls  picking  for  your- 
selves. You  never  met  a  man  in  your  life  whose 
name  wasn't  Johnnie.  You  couldn't  land  a  John  in 
a  million  years." 

Miss  Delehanty  raised  her  face  from  over  a  shoe- 
buckle.  A  stare  began  to  set  in,  as  obviously  inno- 
cent as  a  small  boy's  between  spitballs. 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"Well,  who  said  anything  about  old  St.  Louis, 
I'd  like  to  know?" 

"You  did,  and  you  leave  him  alone!  What  do 
you  know  about  a  real  man?  You'd  pass  up  a 
Ford  ride  to  sit  still  in  a  pasteboard  limousine 
every  time!" 

' '  Well,  of  all  things !    Did  I  say  anything  ?" 

"Yes,  you  did!" 

"Why,  for  my  part,  he  can  show  you  a  good  time 
eight  nights  in  the  week  and  Sundays,  too." 

"He  'ain't  got  grandchildren — if  you  want  to 
know  it." 

"Did  I  say  he  had?" 

"Yes,  you  did!" 

"Why,  I  don't  blame  any  girl  for  showing  grandpa 
a  good  time." 

"You  could  consider  yourself  darn  lucky,  Clarice 
Delehanty,  if  one  half  as  good  ever — " 

"Ask  the  girls  if  I  don't  always  say  old  St. 
Louis  is  all  to  the  good.  Three  or  four  years  ago, 
right  after  his  wife  died,  I  said  to  Ada,  I  said— 

A  head  showed  suddenly  through  the  lining  side 
of  the  mauve  portieres,  blue-eyed,  blue-shaved,  and 
with  a  triple  ripple  of  black  hair  trained  backward. 

"Hurry  along  there  with  fifty-seven,  Delehanty! 
Heyman's  got  to  see  the  line  and  catch  that  six-two 
Chicago  flier." 

Miss  Delehanty  fell  into  pose,  her  profile  turned 
back  over  one  shoulder. 

"Tell  him  to  chew  a  clove;  it's  good  for  breathless 
haste,"  she  said,  disappearing  through  portieres  into 
the  show-room. 

49 


HUMORESQUE 

Miss  Becker  thrust  herself  from  a  hastily-found-out 
aperture,  patting,  with  final  touch,  her  belt  into  place. 

"Have  I  been  asking  you  for  five  years,  Kess,  to 
knock  before  you  poke  your  head  in  on  us  girls?" 

Mr.  Leon  Kessler  appeared  then  fully  between  the 
curtains,  letting  them  drape  heavily  behind  him. 
Gotham  garbs  her  poets  and  her  brokers,  her  em- 
ployers and  employees,  in  the  national  pin-stripes 
and  sack  coat.  Except  for  a  few  pins  stuck  upright 
m  his  coat  lapel,  Mr.  Kessler  might  have  been 
his  banker  or  his  salesman.  Typical  New-Yorker 
is  the  pseudo,  half  enviously  bestowed  upon  his  kind 
by  hinter  America.  It  signifies  a  bi-weekly  manicure, 
femininely  administered;  a  hotel  lobbyist  who  can 
outstare  a  seatless  guest ;  the  sang-froid  to  add  up  a 
dinner  check;  spats.  When  Mr.  Kessler  tipped,  it 
did  not  clink;  it  rustled.  In  theater,  at  each  in- 
terval between  acts,  he  piled  out  over  ladies'  knees 
and  returned  chewing  a  mint.  He  journeyed  twice 
a  year  to  a  famous  Southern  spa,  and  there  won  or 
lost  his  expenses.  He  regarded  Miss  Becker,  peering 
at  her  around  the  fluff  of  a  suspended  frock  of  pink 
tulle. 

"What's  the  idea,  Becker?  Keokuk  wants  to  see 
you  in  the  wrap  line." 

Miss  Becker  swallowed  hard,  jamming  down  and 
pinning  into  a  small  taffy-colored  turban,  her  hair, 
the  exact  shade  of  it,  escaping  in  scallops.  Carefully 
powdered-out  lines  of  her  face  seemed  to  emerge  sud- 
denly through  the  conserved  creaminess  of  her  skin. 
Thirty-four,  in  its  unguarded  moments,  will  out. 
Miss  Becker  had  almost  detained  twenty's  waist- 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

line  and  twenty-two's  ardent  thrust  of  face.  It  was 
only  the  indentures  of  time  that  had  begun  to  tell 
slightly — indentures  that  powder  could  not  putty  out. 
There  was  a  slight  bagginess  of  throat  where  the 
years  love  to  eat  in  first,  and  out  from  the  eyes  a 
spray  of  fine  lines.  It  was  these  lines  that  came  out 
now  indubitably. 

"If  you  want  me  to  lay  down  on  you,  Kess,  for 
sure,  just  ask  me  to  show  the  line  again  before 
lunch.  I'm  about  ready  to  keel.  And  you  can't 
put  me  off  again.  I'm  ready,  and  you  got  to  come 
now." 

He  dug  so  deeply  into  his  pockets  that  his  sleeves 
crawled  up. 

"Say,  look  here.  I've  got  my  business  to  attend 
to,  and,  when  my  trade's  in  town,  my  trade  comes 
first.  See?  Take  off  and  show  Keokuk  a  few  num- 
bers. I  want  him  to  see  that  chinchilla  drape." 

She  reached  out,  closing  her  hand  over  his  arm. 

"I'll  show  him  the  whole  line,  Kess,  when  we're 
back  from  lunch.  I  got  to  talk  to  you,  I  tell  you. 
You  put  me  off  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  and 
this — this  is  the  last." 

"The  last  what?" 

"Please,  Kess,  if  you  only  run  over  to  Rinehardt's 
with  me.  I  got  to  tell  you  something.  Something 
about  me  and — and — " 

He  regarded  her  in  some  perplexity.  "Tell  it  to 
me  here.  Now!" 

"I  can't.  The  girls  '11  be  swarming  in  any  minute. 
I  can't  get  you  anywheres  but  lunch.  It's  the  first 
thirty  minutes  of  your  time  I've  asked  in  five  years, 

Si 


HUMORESQUE 

Kess — is  that  little  enough?  Let  Cissie  show  Keo- 
kuk  the  blouses  till  we  get  back.  It's  something, 
Kess,  I  can't  put  off.  Kess,  please!" 

Her  face  was  so  close  to  him  and  so  eager  that 
he  turned  to  back  out. 

"Wait  for  me  at  the  Thirty-first  Street  entrance," 
he  said,  "and  I'll  shoot  you  across  to  Rinehardt's." 

She  caught  up  her  small  silk  hand-bag  and  ran 
out  toward  the  elevators.  Down  in  Thirty-first 
Street  a  wave  of  heat  met,  almost  overpowering  her. 
New  York,  enervated  from  sleepless  nights  on  fire- 
escapes  and  in  bedrooms  opening  on  areaways, 
moved  through  it  at  half-speed,  hugging  the  narrow 
shade  of  buildings.  Infant  mortality  climbed  with 
the  thermometer.  In  Fifth  Avenue,  cool,  high  bed- 
rooms were  boarded  and  empty.  In  First  Avenue, 
babies  lay  naked  on  the  floor,  snuffing  out  for 
want  of  oxygen. 

Across  that  man-made  Grand  Canon  men  leap 
sometimes,  but  seldom.  Mothers  whose  babies  lie 
naked  on  the  floor  look  out  across  it,  damning. 

Out  into  this  flaying  heat  Miss  Becker  stepped 
gingerly,  almost  immediately  rejoined  by  Mr.  Leon 
Kessler,  crowningly  touched  with  the  correct  thing 
in  straw  sailors. 

"Get  a  move  on,"  he  said,  guiding  her  across  the 
soft  asphalt. 

In  Rinehardt's,  one  of  a  thousand  such  Rathskeller 
retreats  designed  for  a  city  that  loves  to  dine  in 
fifteen  languages,  the  noonday  cortege  of  summer 
widowers  had  not  yet  arrived.  Waiters  moved 
through  the  dim,  pink-lit  gloom,  dressing  their 

52 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

tables  temptingly  cool  and  white,  dipping  ice  out 
from  silver  buckets  into  thin  tumblers. 

They  seated  themselves  beneath  a  ceiling  fan, 
Miss  Becker's  taffy-colored  scallops  stirring  in  the 
scurry  of  air. 

"Lordy!"  she  said,  closing  her  eyes  and  pressing 
her  finger-tips  against  them,  "I  wish  I  could  lease 
this  spot  for  the  summer!" 

He  pushed  a  menu-card  toward  her.  "What'll 
you  have?  There's  plenty  under  the  'ready  to 
serve.'  " 

She  peeled  out  of  her  white-silk  gloves. 

"Some  cold  cuts  and  a  long  ice- tea." 

He  ordered  after  her  and  more  at  length,  then 
lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Well?"  he  said,  waving  out  a  match. 

She  leaned  forward,  already  designing  with  her 
fork  on  the  table-cloth. 

"Kess,  can  you  guess?" 

"Come  on  with  it!" 

"Have  you — noticed  anything?" 

"Say,  I'd  have  a  sweet  time  keeping  up  with  you 
girls!" 

She  looked  at  him  now  evenly  between  the  eyes. 

"You  kept  up  with  me  pretty  close  for  three 
years,  didn't  you?" 

"Say,  you  knew  what  you  were  doing!" 

"I — I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  by  a  long  shot.  I — 
I  was  fed  up  with  the  most  devilish  kind  of  promises 
there  are.  The  kind  you  was  too  smart  to  put  in 
words  or — or  in  writing.  You — you  only  looked  'em." 

"I  suppose  you  was  kidnapped  one  dark  and 

53 


HUMORESQUE 

stormy  night  while  the  villain  pursued  you,  eh? 
Is  that  it?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use — rehashing!  After  that 
time  at  Atlantic  City  and — and  then  the — fiat,  it — • 
it  just  seemed  the  way  I  felt  about  you  then — that 
nothing  you  wanted  could  be  wrong.  I  guess  I 
knew  what  I  was  ploing  all  right,  or,  if  I  didn't,  I 
ought  to  have.  I  was  rotten — or  I  couldn't  have 
done  it,  I  guess.  Only,  deep  inside  of  me  I  was 
waiting  and  banking  on  you  like — like  poor  little 
Cissie  is  now.  And  you  knew  it;  you  knew  it  all 
them  three  years." 

"Say,  did  you  get  me  over  here  to — " 

"I  only  hope  to  God  when  you're  done  with  Cissie 
you'll—" 

"You  let  me  take  care  of  my  own  affairs.  If  it 
comes  right  down  to  it,  there's  a  few  things  I  could 
tell  you,  girl,  that  ain't  so  easy  to  listen  to.  Let's 
get  off  the  subject  while  the  going's  good." 

"Oh,  anybody  that  plays  as  safe  as  you — " 

He  raised  his  voice,  shoving  back  his  chair.  ' '  Well, 
if  you  want  me  to  clear  out  of  this  place  quicker 
than  you  can  bat  your  eye,  you  just — " 

"No,  no,  Kess!     'Sh-h-h-h!" 

"If  there  ever  was  a  girl  in  my  place  had  a  square 
deal,  that  girl's  been  you." 

"  'Square  deal!'  Because  after  I  held  on  and — 
ate  out  my  heart  for  three  years,  you  didn't — take 
away  my  job,  too?  Somebody  ought  to  pin  a  Car- 
negie medal  on  you!" 

"You've  held  down  a  twenty-dollar-a-week  job 
season  in  and  season  out,  when  there've  been  times 

54 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

it  didn't  even  pay  for  the  ink  it  took  to  write  you  on 
the  pay-roll." 

"There's  nothing  I  ever  got  out  of  you  I  didn't 
earn  three  times  over." 

"A  younger  figure  than  yours  is  getting  to  be 
wouldn't  hurt  the  line  any,  you  know.  It's  because 
I  make  it  a  rule  not  to  throw  off  the  old  girls  when 
their  waist-lines  begin  to  spread  that  makes  you  so 
grateful,  is  it?  There's  not  a  firm  in  town  keeps  on 
a  girl  after  she  begins  to  heavy  up.  If  you  got  to 
know  why  I  took  you  off  the  dress  line  and  put  you 
in  the  wraps,  it's  because  I  seen  you  widening  into  a 
thirty-eight,  and  a  darn  poor  one  at  that.  I  can  sell 
two  wraps  off  Cissie  to  one  off  you.  You're  getting 
hippy,  girl,  and,  since  you  started  the  subject,  you 
can  be  darn  glad  you  know  where  your  next  week's 
salary's  coming  from." 

She  was  reddening  so  furiously  that  even  her  ear- 
lobes,  their  tips  escaping  beneath  the  turban,  were 
tinged. 

"Maybe  I — I'm  getting  hippy,  Kess;  but  it'll 
take  more  than  anything  you  can  ever  do  for  me 
to  make  up  for — " 

'Gad!"  he  said,  flipping  an  ash  in  some  disgust, 
"I  wish  I  had  a  ten-cent  piece  for  every  one  since!" 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  her  throat  jerking,  "you  eat  what 
you  just  said!  You  eat  it,  because  you  know  it 
ain't  so!" 

"Now  look  here, "he  said,  straightening  up  sud- 
denly,  "I  don't  know  what    your  game  is,  but  if 
you're  here  to  stir  up  the  old  dust  that's  been  laid  for 
five  years — " 
5  55 


HUMORESQUE 

"No,  no,  Kess!  It's  only  that — what  I  got  to 
tell  you — I — it  makes  a  difference,  I — " 

"What?" 

"There's  nothing  in  these  years  since,  I  swear 
to  God,  or  in  the  years  before,  that  I  got  to  be 
ashamed  of!" 

"All  right!    All  right!" 

"If  ever  a  girl  came  all  of  a  sudden  to  her  senses, 
it  was  me.  If  ever  a  girl  has  lived  a  quiet  life,  pick- 
ing herself  up  and  brushing  the  dust  off,  it's  been 
me.  Oh,  I  don't  say  I  'ain't  been  entertained  by 
the  trade — I  didn't  dodge  my  job — but  it's  been  a 
straight  kind  of  a  time — straight!" 

"I'm  not  asking  for  an  alibi,  Becker.  What's 
the  idea?" 

"Kess,"  she  said,  leaning  forward,  with  tears 
popping  out  in  her  eyes,  "I.  W.  Goldstone  has  asked 
me  to  marry  him." 

He  laid  down  his  roll  in  the  act  of  buttering  it, 
gazing  across  at  her  with  his  knife  upright  in  his 
hand. 

"Huh?" 

"Night  before  last,  Kess,  in  the  poppy-room  at 
Shalifs." 

"Are  you  crazy?" 

"It's  the  God's  truth,  Kess.  He's  begging  me  for 
an  answer  by  to-night,  before  he  goes  back  home." 

"I.  W.  Goldstone,  of  Goldstone  &  Auer,  ladies' 
wear?" 

She  nodded,  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Well,  I'll  be  strung  up!" 

"He — he  says,  Kess,  it's  been  on  his  mind  for  a 

56 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

year  and  a  half,  ever  since  his  spring  trip  a  year  ago. 
He  wants  to  take  me  back  with  him,  Kess,  home." 

"Whew!"  said  Mr.  Kessler,  wiping  his  brow  and 
the  back  of  his  collar. 

"You're  no  more  surprised  than  me,  Kess.  I — I 
nearly  fell  off  the  Christmas  tree." 

"Good  Lord!  Why,  his  wife — he  had  her  in  the 
store  it  seems  yesterday!" 

"She's  been  dead  four  years  and  seven  months, 
Kess." 

"Old  I.  W.  and  you!" 

"He's  only  fifty- two,  Kess;    I'm  thirty-four." 

"I.  W.  Goldstone!" 

"I  know  it.     I  can't  realize  it,  neither." 

"Why,  he's  worth  two  hundred  thousand,  if  he's 
worth  a  cent!" 

"I  know  it,  Kess." 

"The  old  man's  stringing  you,  girl.  His  kind 
stop,  look,  and  listen." 

"He's  not  stringing  me!  I  tell  you  he's  begging 
me  to  marry  him  and  go  back  home  with  him. 
He's  even  told  his — daughter  about  me." 

"Good  Lord — little  Effie!  I  was  out  there  once 
when  she  was  a  kid.  Stopped  off  on  my  way  to 
Hot  Springs.  They  live  in  a  kind  of  park — Forest 
Park  Street  or  something  or  other.  Why,  I've  done 
business  with  Goldstone  &  Auer  for  fifteen  years, 
and  my  father  before  me!  Good  Lord!" 

"What  '11 1  do,  Kess?" 

"So  that's  the  size  of  the  fish  you  went  out  and 
landed!" 

"I  didn't!    I  didn't!    He's  been  asking  me  out 

57 


HI/MORESQUE 

the   last   three   trips,   and   post-cards  in   between, 
but  I  never  thought  nothing  of  it." 

"Why,  he  can't  get  away  with  this!" 

"Why?" 

"They  won't  stand  for  it  out  in  that  Middle 
West  town.  He's  the  head  of  a  big  business.  He's 
got  a  grown  daughter." 

"He's  got  her  fixed,  Kess — settled  on  her." 

"Hattie  Becker,  Mrs.  I.  W.  Goldstone!  Gad!  can 
you  beat  it?  Can't  you  just  see  me,  when  I  come 
out  to  St.  Louis  pretty  soon,  having  dinner  out  at 
Mrs.  I.  W.  Goldstone's  house?  Say,  am  I  seeing 
things?" 

"What  '11 1  do,  Kess?    What  '11  I  do?" 

"I  tell  you  that  you  can't  get  away  with  it,  girl. 
The  old  man's  getting  childish;  they'll  have  to  have 
him  restrained.  Why,  the  woman  he  was  married  to 
for  twenty  years,  Lenie  Goldstone,  never  even  seen  a 
skirt-dance.  I  remember  once  he  brought  her  to 
New  York  and  then  wouldn't  let  her  see  a  cabaret 
show.  He  won't  even  buy  sleeveless  models  for  his 
French  room." 

"I  tell  you,  Kess,  he'll  take  me  to  Jersey  to-morrow 
and  marry  me,  if  I  give  the  word." 

"Not  a  chance!" 

"I  tell  you  yes.  That's  why  I  got  to  see  you.  I 
got  to  tell  him  to-night,  Kess.  He  —  goes  back 
to-morrow." 

He  regarded  her  slowly,  watching  her  throat  where 
it  throbbed. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I— I  don't  know." 

58 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"Where  do  you  stand  with  him?  Sweet  sixteen 
and  never  been  kissed?" 

"He — he  don't  ask  questions,  Kess.  I — I'm  his 
ideal,  he  says,  of  the — kind  of — woman  can  take 
up  for  him  where  his  wife  left  off.  He  says  we're 
alike  in  everything  but  looks,  and  that  a  man  who 
was  happy  in  marriage  like  him  can't  be  happy  out- 
side of  it.  He — he's  sized  up  pretty  well  the  way 
I  live,  and — and — he  knows  I  don't  expect  too  much 
out  of  life  no  more.  Just  a  quiet  kind  of  team-work, 
he  puts  it — pulling  together  fifty-fifty,  and  some- 
body's hand  to  hold  on  to  when  old  fellow  Time  hits 
you  a  whack  in  the  knees  from  behind.  But  he  ain't 
old  when  he  talks  that  way,  Kess ;  he — he's  beautiful 
to  me." 

"Does  he  wear  a  mask  when  he  makes  love?" 

"He's  got  a  fine  face." 

"So  that's  the  way  you're  playing  it,  is  it?  Love- 
stuff?" 

"Oh,  I've  had  all  the  love-stuff  knocked  out  of  me. 
Three  years  of  eating  out  my  heart  is  about  all  the 
love-stuff  I  can  handle  for  a  while.  He  don't  want 
that  in  a  woman.  I  don't  want  it  in  him.  He's 
just  a  plain,  good  man  I  never  in  my  life  could  dream 
of  having.  A  good  home  in  a  good  town  where  life 
ain't  like  a  red-eyed  devil  ready  to  hit  in  deep 
between  the  shoulder-blades.  I  know  why  he  says 
he  can  see  his  wife  in  me.  He  knows  I'm  the  kind 
was  cut  out  for  that  kind  of  life — home  and  kitchen 
and  my  own^  parsley  in  my  own  back  yard.  He 
knows,  if  he  marries  me,  carpet  slippers  seven  nights 
in  the  week  is  my  speed.  I  never  want  to  see  a 

59 


HUMORESQUE 

'roof,'  or  a  music-show,  or  a  cabaret  again  to  the 
day  I  die.  He  knows  I'll  fit  in  home  like  a  gold- 
fish in  its  bowl.  Life  made  a  mistake  with  me,  and 
it's  going  to  square  itself.  It's  fate,  Kess;  that's 
what  it  is — fate!" 

She  clapped  her  hands  to  her  face,  sobbing  down 
into  them. 

He  glanced  about  him  in  quick  and  nervous 
concern. 

"Pull  yourself  together  there,  Becker;  we're  in  a 
public  place." 

"If  only  I  could  go  to  him  and  tell  him." 

"Well,  you  can't." 

"It's  not  you  that  keeps  me.  Only,  I  know 
that  with  his  kind  of  man  and  at  his  age,  a  woman 
is — is  one  thing  or  another  and  that  ends  it.  With 
a  grown  daughter,  he  wouldn't — couldn't — he's  too 
set  in  his  ways  to  know  how  it  was  with  me — and — 
what '11 1  do,  Kess?" 

"Say,  I'm  not  going  to  stand  in  your  light,  if  that's 
what's  eating  you.  If  you  can  get  away  with  it, 
I  don't  wish  you  nothing  but  well.  Looks  to  me 
like  all  right,  if  you  want  to  make  the  try.  I'll 
even  come  and  break  bread  with  you  when  I  go  out 
to  see  my  Middle  West  trade  pretty  soon.  That's 
the  kind  of  a  hairpin  I  am." 

"It's  like  I  keep  saying  to  myself,  Kess.  If — if 
he'd  ask  me  anything,  it — it  would  be  different. 
He — he  says  he  never  felt  so  satisfied  that  a  woman 
had  the  right  stuff  in  her.  And  I  have !  There's  noth- 
ing in  the  world  can  take  that  away  from  me.  I 
can  give  him  what  he  wants.  I  know  I  can.  Why, 

60 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

the  way  I'll  make  up  to  that  little  girl  out  there  and 
love  her  to  death!  I  ask  so  little,  Kess — just  a  de- 
cent life  and  rest — peace.  I'm  tired.  I  want  to  let 
myself  get  fat.  I'm  built  that  way,  to  get  fat.  It  was 
nothing  but  diet  gave  me  the  anaemia  last  summer. 
He  says  he  wants  me  to  plump  out.  Perfect  thirty- 
six  don't  mean  nothing  in  his  life  except  for  the 
trade.  No  more  rooming-houses  with  the  kitchen- 
ette in  the  bath-room.  A  kitchen,  he  says,  Kess, 
half  the  size  of  the  show-room,  with  a  butler's  pantry. 
He  likes  to  play  pinochle  at  night,  he  says,  next  to  the 
sitting-room  fire.  He  tried  to  learn  me  the  rules  of 
the  game  the  other  night  in  the  poppy-room.  It's 
easy.  His  first  wife  was  death  on  flowers.  She 
used  to  train  roses  over  their  back  fence.  He  loved 
to  see  her  there.  He  wants  me  to  like  to  grow  them. 
He  wants  to  take  me  back  to  a  home  of  my  own  and 
peace,  where  life  can't  look  to  a  girl  like  a  devil  with 
horns.  He  wants  to  take  me  home.  What  '11  I  do, 
Kess?  Please,  please,  what  '11  I  do?" 

He  was  rather  inarticulate,  but  reached  out  to  pat 
her  arm.  "Go — to  it — girl,  and — God  bless  you!" 

Forest  Park  Boulevard  comes  in  sootily,  smoke- 
stacks, gas-tanks,  and  large  areas  of  scarred  vacant 
lots  boding  ill  enough  for  its  destiny.  But  after  a 
while,  where  Taylor  Avenue  bisects,  it  begins  to 
retrieve  itself.  Here  it  is  parked  down  its  center, 
a  narrow  strip  set  out  in  shrubs,  and  on  either  side, 
traffic,  thus  divided,  flows  evenly  up  and  down  a 
macadamized  roadway.  In  summer  the  shrubs 
thicken,  half  concealing  one  side  of  Forest  Park 

6? 


HUMORESQUE 

Boulevard  from  its  other.  Houses  suddenly  take  on 
detached  and  architectural  importance,  often  as  not 
a  gravel  driveway  dividing  lawns,  and  out  farther 
still,  where  the  street  eventually  flows  into  Forest 
Park,  the  Italian  Renaissance  invades,  somebody's 
rococo  money's  worth. 

I.  W.  Goldstone's  home,  so  near  the  park  that,  in 
spring,  the  smell  of  lilacs  and  gasolene  hovers  over  it, 
pretends  not  to  period  or  dynasty.  Well  detached, 
and  so  far  back  from  the  sidewalk  that  interlocking 
trees  conceal  its  second-story  windows,  an  alcove 
was  frankly  a  bulge  on  its  red-brick  exterior. 
Where  the  third-floor  bath-room,  an  afterthought, 
led  off  the  hallway,  it  jutted  out,  a  shingled  protu- 
berance on  the  left  end  of  the  house.  A  tower 
swelled  out  of  its  front  end,  and  all  year  round 
geraniums  and  boxed  climbing  vines  bloomed  in  its 
three  stories. 

Across  a  generous  ledge  of  veranda,  more  vines 
grew  quite  furiously,  reaching  their  height  and  then 
growing  down  upon  themselves.  Behind  those  vines, 
and  so  cunningly  concealed  by  them  that  not  even 
the  white  wrapper  could  flash  through  to  the  passer- 
by, Mrs.  I.  W.  Goldstone,  in  a  chair  that  would  rock 
rhythmically  with  her,  loved  to  sit  in  the  first  dusk 
of  evening,  pleasantly  idle.  A  hose  twirling  on  the 
lawn  spun  up  the  smell  of  green,  abetted  by  similar 
whirlings  down  the  wide  vista  of  adjoining  lawns. 
Occasionally,  a  prideful  and  shirt-sleeved  landed 
proprietor  wielded  his  own  hose,  flushing  the  parched 
sidewalk  or  shooting  spray  against  hot  bricks  that 
drank  in  thirstily. 

6? 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

As  Mrs.  Goldstone  rocked  she  smiled,  tilting  her- 
self backward  off  the  balls  of  her  feet.  The  years 
had  cropped  out  in  her  suddenly,  surprisingly,  and 
with  a  great  deal  of  geniality.  The  taffy  cast  to  her 
hair  had  backslid  to  ashes  of  roses.  Uncorseted  and 
in  the  white  wrapper,  she  was  quite  frankly  wide- 
spread, her  hips  fitting  in  tight  between  the  chair- 
arms,  and  her  knees  wide. 

A  screen  door  snapped  sharply  shut  on  its  spring, 
Mr.  I.  W.  Goldstone  emerging.  There  was  a  great 
rotundity  to  his  silhouette,  the  generous  outward 
curve  to  his  waist-line  giving  to  his  figure  a  sway- 
back  erectness,  the  legs  receding  rather  short  and 
thin  from  the  bay  of  waistcoat. 

"Hattie?" 

"Here  I  am,  I.  W." 

"I  looped  up  the  sweet -peas." 

"Good!" 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  wide-kneed,  too,  the 
smooth  top  of  his  head  and  his  shirt  sleeves  spots 
in  the  darkness. 

"Get  dressed  a  little,  Hattie,  and  I'll  get  out  the 
car  and  ride  you  out  to  Forest  Park  Highlands." 

She  slowed,  but  did  not  cease  to  rock. 

"It's  so  grand  at  home  this  evening,  I.  W.  I'm 
too  comfortable  to  even  dress  myself." 

He  felt  for  her  hand  in  the  gloom;  she  put  it  out 
to  him. 

"You  huck  home  too  much,  Hattie." 

"I  guess  I  do,  honey;  but  it's  like  I  can  never  get 
enough  of  it.  The  first  year  I  was  a  home  body, 
and  the  second  and  third  year  I'm  two  of  'em." 

$3 


HUMORESQUE 

"That's  something  you'll  never  hear  me  complain 
of  in  a  woman.  There's  a  world  of  good  in  the 
woman  who  loves  her  home." 

"It's  not  that,  I.  W.  It's  because  I  —  I  never 
dreamed  that  there  was  anything  like  this  coming  to 
me.  To  live  around  in  rooms,  year  in  and  year  out, 
in  the  lonesomest  town  in  the  world,  and  then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  a  home  of  your  own  and  a  hubby  of  your 
own  and  a  daughter  of  your  own,  why — I  dunno — 
sometimes  when  I  think  of  them  days  it's  like  life 
was  a  big  red  devil  with  horns  and  a  tail  that  I'd 
got  away  from.  Why,  if  it  was  to  get  me  again,  I — 
I  dunno,  honey,  I  dunno — I — just — dunno." 

"You're  a  good  woman,  Hattie,  and  you  deserve 
all  that's  coming  to  you.  I  wish  it  was  more." 

"And  you're  a  good  man — they  don't  come  no 
better." 

"I'm  satisfied  with  my  bargain." 

"And  me  with  mine,  honey,  if  —  if  you  don't 
mind  the  talk." 

"S-ay,  this  town  would  talk  if  you  cut  its  tongue 
out." 

"You're  my  nice  old  hubby!" 

"If  I  ever  was  a  little  uneasy  it  was  in  the  begin- 
ning, Hattie — the  girl — those  things  don't  always 
turn  out." 

"It's  her  as  much  as  me,  I.  W.  She's  the  sweetest 
little  thing." 

"Never  seen  the  like  the  way  you  took  hold, 
though.  I'll  bet  there's  not  one  woman  in  a  hundred 
could  have  worked  it  out  easier." 

"That's  right— kid  me  to  death." 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"'Kid,'  she  says,  the  minute  I  tell  her  the  truth." 

"Put  on  your  cap,  I.  W.;  it's  getting  damp." 

He  felt  under  the  chair-cushions,  drawing  out  and 
adjusting  a  black  skull-cap. 

"Want  to  go  to  the  picture-show  awhile,  Hattie?" 

"No.  When  Lizzie's  done  the  dishes,  I  want  to 
set  some  dough." 

"Let's  walk,  then,  a  little.  I  ate  too  much 
supper." 

"Just  in  the  side  yard,  I.  W.  It's  a  shame  the 
way  I  don't  dress  evenings." 

"S-ay,  in  your  own  home,  shouldn't  you  have 
your  own  comfort?  You  can  take  it  from  me, 
Hattie,  no  matter  what  Effie  tells  you,  you're  twice 
the  looking  woman  with  vsome  skin  on  your  bones. 
I  want  my  wife  when  she  sits  down  to  table  she  should 
not  look  blue-faced  when  the  gravy  is  passed. 
Maybe  it's  not  the  style,  but  if  it  suits  your  old 
man,  we  should  worry  who  else  it  suits." 

"It's  not  right,  I.  W.,  but  I  love  it — this  feeling 
at  home  for — for  good."  She  rose  out  of  the  low 
mound  she  had  made  in  the  chair,  tucking  up  the 
white  wrapper  at  both  sides.  "Come;  let's  walk 
in  the  side  yard." 

A  narrow  strip  of  asphalt  ran  across  the  house- 
frontage,  turning  in  a  generous  elbow  and  then  back 
the  depth  of  the  lot.  They  paced  it  quietly  in  the 
gloom,  arm  in  arm,  and  their  voices  under  darkness. 

' '  Next  month  is  my  New  York  trip.  All  of  a  sud- 
den Effie  begs  I  should  take  her.  We'll  all  go.  What 
you  say,  Hattie?  It  '11  do  us  good." 

"You  take  the  kid,  I.  W.  Lizzie  needs  watching. 

65 


HUMORESQUE 

Yesterday  I  had  to  make  her  do  the  whole  butler's 
pantry  over.  She  just  naturally  ain't  clean." 

"You  got  such  luck  with  your  roses,  Hattie; 
it's  wonderful!" 

They  were  beneath  a  climbing  bush  of  them  that 
ran  along,  glorifying  a  wooden  fence. 

She  pulled  a  fan  of  them  to  her  face.    ' '  M-m-m-m !" 

"I  must  spray  for  worms  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

They  resumed  their  soft  walking  in  the  gloom. 
"Where's  Erne?" 

"Telephoning." 

"I  ask  you,  is  it  a  shame  a  child  should  hang  on 
to  the  telephone  an  hour  at  a  time?  Fifty  minutes 
since  she  was  interrupted  from  supper  she's  been 
there." 

"What's  the  harm  in  a  young  girl  telephoning, 
I.  W.?  All  young  folks  like  to  gad  over  the  wire." 

"What  can  a  girl  have  to  say  over  the  telephone 
for  fifty  minutes?  Altogether  in  my  life  I  never 
talked  that  long  into  the  telephone." 

"Let  the  child  alone,  I.  W." 

"Who  can  she  get  to  listen  to  her  for  fifty 
minutes?" 

"Birdie  Harberger  usually  calls  up  at  this  time." 

"Always  at  supper- time!  Never  in  my  life  has 
that  child  sat  down  at  the  table  it  don't  ring  in 
our  faces.  The  next  time  what  it  happens  you  can 
take  sides  with  her  all  you  want,  not  one  step  does 
she  move  till  she's  finished  with  her  supper." 

"As  easy  with  her  as  you  are,  I.  W.,  just  as  un- 
reasonable you  can  get." 

"On  the  stairs-landing  for  an  hour  a  child  should 

66 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

giggle  into  the  telephone!     I'm  ashamed  for  the 
operators.     You  take  sides  with  her  yet." 

"I  don't,  I.  W.;   only—" 

"You  do!" 

A  patch  of  light  from  an  upper  window  sprang  then 
across  their  path. 

"She's  in  her  room  now,  I.  W.!"  cried  Mrs. 
Goldstone.  "She  hasn't  been  telephoning  all  this 
time  at  all.  Now,  crosspatch!" 

"You  know  much!  Can't  you  see  she  just  lit 
up?  Erne!" 

A  voice  came  down  to  them,  clear  and  with  a 
quality  to  it  like  the  ring  of  thin  glass. 

"Coming,  pop!" 

The  light  flashed  out  again,  and  in  a  length  of 
time  that  could  only  have  meant  three  steps  at  a 
bound  she  was  around  the  elbow  of  the  asphalt 
walk,  a  coat  dangling  off  one  arm,  her  summery 
skirts  flying  backward  and  her  head  ardently  for- 
ward. 

"You'll  never  guess!" 

She  flung  herself  between  the  two  of  them,  link- 
t  ing  into  each  of  their  elbows. 

"By  my  watch,  Effie,  fifty  minutes !  If  it  happens 
again  that  you  get  rung  up  supper-time,  I — " 

"It  was  Leon  Kessler,  pop;  he  didn't  leave  on  the 
six- two.  Can  you  beat  it  ?  Down  at  the  station  he 
got  to  thinking  of  me  and  turned  back.  Oh,  my 
golly!  how  the  boys  love  me!" 

She  was  jumping  now  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  her 
black  curls  bouncing. 
"  "You  don't  tell  me!"  said  Mr.  Goldstone.     "To- 

6; 


HUMORESQUE 

day  in  the  store  he  says  he  must  be  back  in  New 
York  by  Monday  morning." 

She  thrust  her  face  outward,  its  pink-and-white 
vividness  very  close  to  his. 

"Is  my  daddy's  daughter  going  out  in  a  seventy 
horse-power  to  Delmar  Garden  ?  She  is !" 

"Them  New  York  boys  spend  too  much  money 
on  the  girls  when  they  come.  They  spoil  them  for 
the  home  young  men." 

"Can  I  help  it  if  he  couldn't  tear  himself  away?" 

"S-ay,  don't  fool  yourself!  I  said  to  him  to-day 
he  should  stay  over  Sunday.  After  the  bill  of  goods 
I  bought  from  him  this  morning,  and  the  way  he 
only  comes  out  to  see  his  trade  once  in  five  or  six 
years,  he  should  stay  and  mix  with  them  a  little 
longer.  That  fellow  knows  good  business." 

She  turned  her  face  with  a  fling  of  curls  to  the 
right  of  her,  linking  closer  into  the  soft  arm  there. 

"Listen  to  him,  Mamma  Hat!  Let's  shove  a 
brick  house  over  on  him." 

When  Mrs.  Goldstone  finally  spoke  there  was  a 
depth  to  her  voice  that  seemed  to  create  sudden  quiet. 

"Effie,  Effie,  why  didn't  you  let  him  go?" 

"Let  him?  Did  I  tie  any  strings  to  him?  I 
said  good-by  to  him  in  the  store  this  afternoon. 
Can  I  help  it  that  the  boys  love  me?  Why  didn't  I 
let  him  go,  she  says!" 

Her  father  pinched  her  slyly  at  that.  ' '  Echta  fresh 
kid,"  he  said. 

To  her  right,  the  hand  at  her  arm  clung  closer. 

"Effie,  you — you're  so  young,  honey.  Leon  Kess- 
ler's  an  old-timer — " 

6S 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"I  hate  kids.  Give  me  a  man  every  time.  I 
like  them  when  they've  got  enough  sense  to — " 

"Why  didn't  you  let  him  go,  Effie?  Ain't  I  right, 
I.  W.?  Ain't  I  right?" 

"S-ay,  what's  the  difference  if  he  likes  to  show  her 
a  good  time?  If  I  was  a  young  man,  I  wouldn't 
pass  her  up  myself." 

"But,  I.  W.,  she's— so  young!" 

"Who's  young?     I'm  nineteen,  going  on — 

"You've  been  running  with  him  all  the  three  days 
he's  been  here,  honey.  What's  the  use  getting  your- 
self talked  about?" 

"Well,  any  girl  in  town  would  be  glad  to  get 
herself  talked  about  if  Leon  Kessler  was  rushing 
her." 

"Effie,  I  won't  let  you— I  won't—" 

Miss  Goldstone  unhinged  her  arm,  jerking  it  free 
in  anger. 

"Well,  I  like  that!" 

"Effie,  I—" 

"You  ain't  my  boss!" 

"Effie!" 

"But,  papa,  she — " 

There  was  a  booming  in  Mr.  Goldstone's  voice  and 
a  suddenly  projected  vibrancy. 

"You  apologize  to  your  mother — this  minute! 
You  talk  to  your  mother  the  way  you  know  she's 
to  be  talked  to!" 

"I.  W.,  she  didn't— " 

"You  hear  me!" 

"I.  W.!     Don't  holler  at  her;   she—" 

"She  ain't  your  boss?     Well,  she  just  is  your  boss! 

69 


HUMORESQUE 

You  take  back  them  words  and  say  you're  sorry! 
You  apologize  to  your  mother!"  Immediate  sobs 
were  rumbling  up  through  Miss  Goldstone. 

"Well,  she—  I— I  didn't  do  anything.  She's 
down  on  him.  She — " 

"Oh,  Effie,  would  I  say  anything  if  it  wasn't  for 
your  own  good?" 

"You — you  were  down  on  him  from  the  start!" 

"Effie  darling,  you  must  be  mad!  Would  I  say 
anything  if  it  wasn't  for  our  girl's  good  to — " 

"I — oh,  Mamma  Hat,  I'm  sorry,  darling!  I 
never  meant  a  word.  I  didn't!  I  didn't,  darling!" 

They  embraced  there  in  the  shrouding  darkness, 
the  tears  flowing. 

"Oh,  Effie— Effie!" 

"I  didn't  mean  one  word  I  said,  darling!  I  just 
get  nasty  like  that  before  I  know  it.  I  didn't  mean 
it!" 

"My  own  Effie!" 

"My  darling  Mamma  Hat!" 

In  the  shadow  of  a  flowering  shrub  Mr.  Goldstone 
stood  by,  mopping.  Mrs.  Goldstone  took  the  small 
face  between  her  hands,  peering  down  into  it. 

"Effie,  Effie,  don't  let—" 

Just  beyond  the  enclosing  hedge,  a  motor-car 
drew  up,  honking,  at  the  curb,  two  far-flung  paths  of 
light  whitening  the  street  and  a  disused  iron  negro- 
boy  hitching-post.  Miss  Goldstone  reared  back. 

"That's  him!" 

"Effie!" 

"Let  me  go,  dearie;  let  me  go!" 

"But,  Effie—" 

70 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"Say,  Hattie,  I  don't  want  to  butt  in,  but  it  don't 
hurt  the  child  should  go  riding  a  little  while  out  by 
Delmar  Garden — a  man  that  can  handle  a  car  like 
Leon  Kessler.  Anyways,  it  don't  pay  to  hurt  the 
firm's  feelings." 

There  was  a  constant  honking  now  at  the  curb,  and 
violent  throbbing  of  engine. 

"But,  I.  W.— " 

"Popsie  darling,  I'll  be  back  early.  Mamma 
Hat,  please!" 

"Your  mother  says  yes,  baby.  Tell  Kess  he 
should  come  for  Sunday  dinner  to-morrow." 

She  was  a  white  streak  across  the  grass,  her  ner- 
vous feet  flying.  Almost  instantly  the  honk  of  a 
horn  came  streaming  back,  faint,  fainter. 

Left  standing  there,  Goldstone  was  instantly 
solicitous  of  his  wife,  feeling  along  her  arm  up  under 
the  loose  sleeve. 

"It  don't  pay,  Hattie,  to  hurt  Kessler's  feelings, 
and,  anyhow,  what's  the  difference  just  so  we  know 
who  she's  running  with?  It's  like  this  house  was  a 
honey-pot  and  the  boys  flies." 

She  turned  to  him  now  with  her  voice  full  of  husk, 
and  even  in  the  dark  her  face  bleached  and  shrunken 
from  its  plumpness. 

1 '  You  oughtn't  to  let  her !  You— hadn't  the  right ! 
She's  too  young  and  too  —  sweet  for  a  man  like 
him.  You  oughtn't  to  let  her!" 

He  stepped  out  in  front  of  her,  taking  her  by  the 
elbows  and  holding  them  close  down  against  her 
sides. 

"Why,  Hattie,  that  child's  own  mother  that  loved 

6  71 


HUMORESQUE 

her  like  an  angel  couldn't  worry  no  more  foolishly 
about  her  than  you  do.  Gad!  I  think  you  wirnmin 
love  it!  It  was  the  same  kind  of  worrying  short- 
ened her  mother's  life.  Always  about  nothing,  too. 
'Lenie,'  I  used  to  say  to  her,  just  to  quiet  her,  'it 
was  worry  killed  a  Maltese  cat;  don't  let  it  kill 
you.'  That  child  is  all  right,  Hattie.  What  if  he 
does  like  her  pretty  well?  Worse  could  happen." 
"No,  it  couldn't!  No!" 

"Why  not?  He  'ain't  seen  her  since  a  child,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  he  comes  West  and  finds  in  front  of 
him  an  eye-opener." 

"He's  twice  her  age — more!" 
"The  way  girls  demand  things  nowadays,  a  man 
has  got  to  be  twice  her  age  before  he  can  provide 
for  her.     Leon  Kessler  is  big  rich." 
"He— he's  fast." 

"Show  me  the  one  that  'ain't  sowed  his  wild 
oats.     Them's  the  kind  that  settle  down  quickest 
into  good  husbands." 
"He—" 

"S-ay,  it  'ain't  happened  yet.  I'm  the  last  one  to 
wish  my  girl  off  my  hands.  I  only  say  not  a  boy  in 
this  town  could  give  it  to  her  so  good.  Fifteen 
years  I've  done  business  with  that  firm,  and  with 
his  father  before  him.  A-i  house !  S-ay,  I  should 
worry  that  he  ain't  a  Sunday-school  boy.  Show  me 
the  one  that  is.  Your  old  man  in  his  young  days 
wasn't  such  a  low  flier,  neither,  if  anybody  should 
ask  you."  He  made  a  whirring  noise  in  his  throat 
at  that,  pinching  her  cold  cheek.  She  was  walking 
rapidly  now  toward  the  house.  "Well,  since  our 

72 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

daughter  goes  out  riding  in  a  six-thousand-dollar 
car,  to  show  that  we're  sports,  lets  her  father  and 
mother  take  themselves  out  for  a  ride  in  their 
six-hundred-dollar  car.  I  drive  you  out  as  far  as 
Yiddle's  farm  for  some  sweet  butter,  eh?" 

"No,  no;  I'm  cold.     It's  getting  damp." 

' '  S-ay,  you  can't  hurt  my  feelings.  On  a  cool  night 
like  this,  a  brand-new  sleeping-porch  ain't  the  worst 
spot  in  the  world." 

They  were  on  the  veranda,  the  hall  light  falling 
dimly  out  and  over  them. 

"She's  so  young — ' 

"Now,  now,  Hattie;  worry  killed  a  Maltese  cat. 
Come  to  bed." 

' '  You  go.     I  want  to  wait  up. ' ' 

"Hattie,  you  want  to  make  of  yourself  the  laugh- 
ingstock of  the  neighborhood.  A  grown-up  girl  goes 
out  riding  with  a  man  like  Leon  Kessler,  and  you 
wants  to  wait  up  and  catch  your  death  of  cold.  If 
we  had  more  daughters,  I  wouldn't  have  no  more 
wife;  I'd  have  a  shadow  from  worry.  Come!" 

"I'll  be  up  in  a  minute,  I.  W." 

He  regarded  her  in  some  concern. 

"Why,  Hattie,  if  there's  anything  in  the  world  to 
worry  about,  wouldn't  I  be  the  first?  Ain't  you 
well?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  come.  I'll  get  a  pitcher  of  ice-water  to 
take  up-stairs." 

"I'll  be  up  in  a  minute." 

"I  don't  want,  Hattie,  you  should  wait  up  for  that 
child  and  take  your  death  of  cold.  Because  I  sleep 

73 


HUMORESQUE 

like  a  log  when  I  once  hit  the  bed,  don't  you  play  no 
tricks  on  me." 

'Til  be  up  in  a  minute,  I.  W." 

He  moved  into  the  house  and,  after  a  while,  to 
the  clinking  of  ice  against  glass,  up  the  stairs. 

"Come,  Hattie;  and  be  sure  and  leave  the  screen 
door  unhooked  for  her." 

"Yes,  I.  W." 

An  hour  she  sat  in  the  shrouded  darkness  of  the 
elbow  of  the  veranda.  Street  noises  died.  The 
smell  of  damp  came  out.  Occasionally  a  motor-car 
sped  by,  or  a  passer-by,  each  step  clear  on  the  asphalt. 
The  song  of  crickets  grated  against  the  darkness. 
An  infant  in  the  right-side  house  raised  a  fretful 
voice  once  or  twice,  and  then  broke  into  a  sustained 
and  coughy  fit  of  crying.  Lights  flashed  up  in  the 
windows,  silhouettes  moving  across  drawn  shades. 
Then  silence  again.  The  university  clock,  a  mile 
out,  chimed  twelve,  and  finally  a  sonorous  one. 
Mrs.  Goldstone  lay  huddled  in  her  chair,  vibrant  for 
sound.  At  two  o'clock  the  long,  high-power  car 
drew  up  at  the  curb  again,  this  time  without  honk- 
ing. She  sat  forward,  trembling. 

There  followed  a  half -hour  of  voices  at  the  curb,  a 
low  voice  of  undeniable  tensity,  high  laughter  that 
shot  up  in  joyous  geysers.  It  was  a  fifteen-min- 
ute process  from  the  curb  to  the  first  of  the  porch 
steps,  and  then  Mrs.  Goldstone  leaned  forward, 
her  voice  straining  to  keep  its  pitch. 

"Erne!" 

The  young  figure  sprang  around  the  porch 
pillar. 

74 


OATS    FOR  THE   WOMAN 

"Mamma  Hat!  Honey,  you  didn't  wait  up  for 
me?" 

Mr.  Kessler  came  forward,  goggles  pushed  up 
above  his  cap-visor. 

"Well,  I'm  hanged!  What  did  you  think— that 
I  was  kidnapping  the  kid?" 

"How — how  dared  you!     It's  after  two,  and — " 

Miss  Goldstone  began  then  to  jump  again  upon  her 
toes,  linking  her  arm  in  his. 

"Tell  her,  Leon!  Tell  her!  Oh,  Mamma  Hat! 
Mamma  Hat!" 

She  was  suddenly  in  Mrs.  Goldstone's  arms,  her 
ardent  face  burning  through  the  white  wrapper. 

Mr.  Kessler  removed  his  cap,  flinging  it  upward 
again  and  catching  it. 

"Tell  her,  Leon!" 

"Well,  what  would  you  say,  Becker,  what  would 
you  say  if  I  was  to  come  out  here  and  swipe  that  little 
darling  there?" 

"Oh,  Leon— kidder!" 

"If— what?" 

"I  said  it!" 

"Tell  her,  Kess;  tell  it  out!  Oh,  mommie, 
mommie!" 

He  leaned  forward  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the 
turbulent  head  of  curls. 

"You  little  darling,  I'm  going  to  put  you  on  my 
back  and  carry  you  off  to  New  York." 

"Oh,  mommie,"  cried  Miss  Goldstone,  flinging 
back  her  head  so  that  her  face  shone  up,  "he  asked 
me  in  Delmar  Garden!  We're  going  to  live  in  New 
York,  darling,  and  Rockaway  in  summer.  He  don't 

75 


HUMORESQUE 

care  a  rap  about  the  New  York  girls  compared 
to  me.  We're  going  to  Cuba  on  our  honeymoon. 
I'm  engaged,  darling!  I  got  engaged  to-night!" 

"That's  the  idea,  Twinkle-pinkie.  I'd  carry  you 
off  to-night  if  I  could!" 

"Mommie  Hat,  ain't  you  glad?" 

"Erne— Erne— " 

"Mommie,  what  is  it?  What's  the  matter,  dar- 
ling? What?" 

"I — it's  just  that  I  got  cold,  honey,  sitting  here 
waiting — the  surprise  and  all.  Run,  honey,  and  get 
me  a  drink.  Crack  some  ice,  dearie,  and  then  run 
up-stairs  in  the  third  floor  back  and  see  if  there's 
some  brandy  up  there.  Be  sure  to  look  for — the 
brandy.  I— I'll  be  all  right." 

"My  poor,  darling,  cold  momrnie!" 

She  was  off  on  the  slim,  quick  feet,  the  screen  door 
slamming  and  vibrating. 

Then  Mrs.  Goldstone  sprang  up. 

"You  wouldn't  dare!  Such  a  baby — you  wouldn't 
dare!" 

"Dare  what?" 

' '  You  can't  have  the  child !    You  can't !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  do  I  mean?" 

He  advanced  a  step,  his  voice  and  expression  lifted 
in  incredulity. 

"Say,  look  here,  Becker,  are  you  stark,  raving 
crazy?  Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  that,  in  your 
place,  nobody  but  a  crazy  woman  would  open  her 
mouth?" 

"Maybe;  but  I  don't  care.    Just  leave  her  alone, 

76 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

Kess,  please!  That  little  baby  can  stand  nothing 
but  happiness." 

"Why,  woman,  you're  crazy  with  the  heat  If 
you  want  to  know  it,  I'm  nuts  over  that  little  kid. 
Gad!  never  ran  across  anything  so  full  of  zip  in  my 
life!  I'm  going  to  make  life  one  joy  ride  after  an- 
other for  that  joy  baby.  That  kid's  the  show- 
piece of  the  world.  She's  got  me  so  hipped  I'm 
crazy,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  I  like  it.  You  don't 
need  to  worry.  As  the  boys  say,  when  I  settle  down, 
I'm  going  to  settle  hard." 

"You  ain't  fit  to  have  her!" 

"Say,  the  kind  of  life  I've  lived  I  ain't  ashamed  to 
tell  her  own  father.  He's  a  man,  and  I'm  a  man, 
and  life's  life." 

"You—" 

"Now  look  here,  Becker.  That  '11  be  about  all. 
If  you're  in  your  right  senses,  you're  going  to  ring 
the  joy  bells  louder  than  any  one  around  here. 
What  you  got  on  your  chest  you  can  just  as  well 
cut  your  throat  as  tell;  so  we'll  both  live  happy  ever 
after.  There's  not  one  thing  in  my  life  that  any 
jury  wouldn't  pass,  and — 

"I've  seen  you  drunk." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  It  took  three  of  us  to  yank  old 
I.  W.  out  from  under  the  table  at  my  sister's  wedding." 

"You —     What  about  you  and  Cissie  and — ' 

The  light  run  of  feet,  and  almost  instantly  Miss 
Goldstone  was  pirouetting  in  between  them. 

' ' Here,  dearie !  There  wasn't  anything  like  brandy 
up  in  the  third  floor.  I  found  some  cordial  in  the 
pantry.  Drink  it  down,  dearie;  it  'U  warm  you." 

77 


HUMORESQUE 

They  hovered  together,  Miss  Goldstone  trembling 
between  solicitude  and  her  state  of  intensity. 

"Kessie  darling,  you've  got  to  go  now.  I  want  to 
get  mommie  up-stairs  to  bed.  You  got  to  go, 
darling,  until  to-morrow.  Oh,  why  isn't  it  to- 
morrow? I  want  everybody  to  know.  Don't  let 
on,  Mamma  Hat.  I'll  pop  it  on  popsie  at  breakfast 
while  I'm  opening  his  eggs  for  him.  You  come  for 
breakfast,  Leon.  You're  in  the  family  now."  He 
lifted  her  bodily  from  her  feet,  pressing  a  necklace 
of  kisses  round  her  throat. 

"Good  night,  Twinkle-pinkie,  till  to-morrow." 

"Good  night,  darling.  I  won't  sleep  a  wink, 
waiting  for  you." 

"Me,  neither." 

"One  more,  darling — a  French  one." 

"Two  for  good  measure." 

"Sleep  tight,  beautiful!     Good  night!" 

"Good  night,  beautifulest!" 

She  stood  poised  forward  on  the  topmost  step, 
watching  him  between  backward  waves  of  the  hand 
crank,  throw  his  clutch,  and  steer  off.  Then  she 
turned  inward,  a  sigh  trembling  between  her  lips. 

"Oh,  Mamma  Hat,  I—" 

But  Mrs.  Goldstone's  chair  was  empty.  Into  it 
with  a  second  and  more  tremulous  sigh  sank  Miss 
Goldstone,  her  lips  lifted  in  the  smile  that  had 
been  kissed. 

When  Mr.  Goldstone  slept,  every  alternate  breath 
started  with  a  rumble  somewhere  down  in  the  depths 
of  him  and,  drawn  up  like  a  chain  from  a  well,  petered 
out  into  a  thin  whistle  before  the  next  descent. 

78 


OATS    FOR   THE    WOMAN 

Beside  him,   now,   on  her  knees,   Mrs.   Goldstone 
shook  at  his  shoulder. 

"I.  W.!    I.  W.!    Quick!    Wake  up!" 

He  let  out  a  shuddering,  abysmal  breath. 

"I.W.!  Please!" 

He  moaned,  turning  his  face  from  her. 

She  tugged  him  around  again,  now  raising  his  face 
between  her  hands  from  the  pillow. 

"I.  W.!  Try  to  wake  up!  For  God's  sake, 
I.  W.!"  He  sprang  up  in  a  terrified  daze,  sitting 
upright  in  bed. 

"My  God!  Who?  What's  wrong?  Effie!  Hat- 
tie." 

"No,  no;  don't  get  excited,  I.  W.  It's  me — 
Hattie!" 

"What?" 

"Nothing,  I.  W.  Nothing  to  get  excited  about. 
Only  I  got  to  tell  you  something." 

"Where's  Effie?" 

"She's  home." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Three." 

' '  Come  back  to  bed,  then ;  you  got  the  nightmare. " 

"No,  no!" 

"You  ain't  well,  Hattie?     Let  me  light  up." 

"No,  no;  only,  I  got  to  tell  you  something!  I 
'ain't  been  to  bed;  I  been  waiting  up,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"She  just  came  home — engaged!" 

"My  God!   Effie?" 

He  blinked  in  the  darkness,  drawing  up  his  knees 
to  a  hump  under  the  sheet. 

79 


HUMORESQUE 

"Engaged— how?" 

"I.  W.,  don't  you  remember?  Wake  up,  honey. 
To  Kess,  to  Leon  Kessler  that  she  went  automobiling 
with." 

"Our  Effie  engaged — to  Leon  Kessler?" 

"Yes,  I.  W.— our  little  Effie!" 

A  smile  spread  over  his  face  slowly,  and  he  clasped 
his  hands  in  an  embrace  about  his  knees. 

"You  don't  tell  me!" 

"Oh,  I.  W.,  please—" 

"Our  little  girl.  S-ay,  how  poor  Lenie  would 
have  loved  this  happiness!  Our  little  girl  engaged 
to  get  married!" 

"I.  W.,  she—" 

"We  do  the  right  thing  by  them — eh,  Hattie? 
Furnish  them  up  as  many  rooms  as  they  want. 
But,  s-ay,  they  don't  need  help  from  us.  He's  a 
lucky  boy  who  gets  her,  I  don't  care  who  he  is. 
Her  papa's  little  Effie,  a  baby — old  enough  to  get 
engaged!" 

"I.  W.,  she's  too — young.  Don't  give  him  our 
little  Effie;  she's  too  young !" 

"I  married  her  mother,  Hattie,  when  she  wasn't 
yet  eighteen." 

"I  know,  I.  W.,  but  not  to  Leon  Kessler.  She's 
such  a  baby,  I.  W.  He — didn't  I  work  for  him 
nine  years,  I.  W. — don't  I  know  what  he  is!" 

"I'm  surprised,  Hattie,  you  should  hold  so  against 
a  man  his  wild  oats." 

"Then  why  ain't  oats  for  the  man  oats  for  the 
woman?  It's  the  men  that  sow  the  wild  oats  and 
the  women — us  women  that's  got  to  reap  them!" 

80 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

"S-ay,  life  is  life.  Do  you  want  to  put  your  head 
up  against  a  brick  wall?" 

"A  wall  that  men  built!" 

"It's  always  hard,  Hattie,  for  good  women  like 
you  and  like  poor  Lenie  was  to  understand.  It's  bet- 
ter you  don't.  You  shouldn't  even  think  about  it." 

"But,  I.  W.— " 

"If  I  didn't  know  Leon  Kessler  was  no  worse 
than  ninety-nine  good  husbands  in  a  hundred,  you 
think  I  would  let  him  lay  a  finger  on  the  apple  of 
my  eye  ? '  I  don't  understand,  Hattie ;  all  of  a  sudden 
this  evening,  you're  so  worked  up.  Instead  of  hap- 
piness, you  come  like  with  a  funeral.  Is  that  why 
you  wake  me  up  out  of  a  sleep?  To  cry  about  it? 
Don't  think,  Hattie,  that  just  as  much  as  you  I 
haven't  got  the  good  of  my  child  at  heart.  Out 
of  a  sound  sleep  she  wakes  me  to  cry  because  a  happi- 
ness has  come  to  us.  Leon  Kessler  can  have  any 
girl  in  this  town  he  wants.  Maybe  he  wasn't  a 
Sunday-school  boy  in  his  day — but  say,  show  me  one 
that  was." 

She  drew  herself  up,  grasping  him  at  the  shoulders. 

"I.  W.,  don't  let  him  have  our  little  Effie!" 

"Nonsense!"  he  said,  in  some  distaste  for  her 
voice  choked  with  tears.  "Cut  out  this  woman  fool- 
ishness now  and  come  to  bed.  Is  this  something 
new  you're  springing  on  me?  I  got  no  patience 
with  women  who  indulge  themselves  with  nervous 
breakdowns.  I  never  thought,  Hattie,  you  had 
nothing  like  that  in  you." 

Her  voice  was  rising  now  in  hysteria,  slipping  up 
frequently  beyond  her  control. 


HUMORESQUE 

"If  you  do,  I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't  stand  it, 
I.  W.!" 

He  peered  at  her  in  the  starlight  that  came 
down  through  the  screened-in  top  of  the  sleeping- 
porch. 

"Why?"  he  said,  suddenly  awake,  and  shortly. 

"I  worked  for  him  nine  years,  I.  W.  I — I  know 
him." 

"How?" 

"I  know  him,  I.  W.     She's  too  good  for  him." 

"How  do  you  know  him?" 

"I — the  girls,  I.  W.  One  little  girl  now,  Cissie — 
I — I  hear  it  all  from  my  friend  Delehanty — some- 
times she — she  writes  to  me.  I — the  models  and — 
the  girls  and — and  the  lady  buyers — they — they 
used  to  gossip  in  the  factory  and — I — I  used  to  hear 
about  it.  I.  W.,  don't!  Let  go!  You  hurt!" 
His  teeth  and  his  hands  were  very  tight,  and  he  hung 
now  over  the  side  of  the  bed  and  toward  her. 

"He— I.  W.— he— " 

"He  what?    He  what?" 

"He — ain't  good  enough." 

"I  say  he  is!" 

"But  he — I.  W. — she — she's  such  a  baby  and  he 
—he—  You  hurt!" 

"Then  tell  me,  he  what?" 

"I.  W.,  you're  hurting  me!" 

"He  what — do  you  hear? — he  what?" 

"Don't  make  me  say  it!  Don't!  It — it  just 
happened — with  him  meaning  one  thing  all  the  time 
and — me  another.  I  was  thrown  with  that  kind  of 
a  crowd,  I.  W.,  all  my  life.  All  the  girls,  they-  - 

82 


OATS    FOR   THE   WOMAN 

It  don't  make  me  worse  than  it  makes  him.  With 
me  it  was  once;  with  him  it's — it's —  I  didn't 
know,  I.  W.  My  mother  she  died  that  year  before, 
and — I  needed  the  job,  and  I  swear  to  God,  I.  W., 
I — kept  hoping  even  if  he  never  put  it  in  words,  he'd 
fix  it.  Kill  me,  if  you  want  to,  I.  W.,  but  don't 
throw  our  Effie  to  him!  Don't!  Don't!  Don't!" 

She  was  pounding  the  floor  with  her  bare  palms, 
her  face  so  distorted  that  the  mouth  drawn  tight  over 
the  teeth  was  as  wide  and  empty  as  a  mask's,  and 
sobs  caught  and  hiccoughed  in  her  throat. 

"I  didn't  know,  I.  W.!  Don't  kill  me  for  what  I 
didn't  know!" 

She  crouched  back  from  his  knotted  face,  and  he 
sprang  then  out  of  bed,  nightshirt  flapping  about  his 
knees,  and  his  fists  and  his  bulging  eyes  raised  to  the 
quiet  stars. 

"God,"  he  cried,  "help  me  to  keep  hold  of  myself! 
Help  me!  You — you— 

His  voice  was  so  high  and  so  tight  in  his  throat 
that  it  stuck,  leaving  him  in  inarticulate  invocation. 

"I.  W.!" 

"My  child  engaged  to — to  her  mother's — you — 
you—" 

"I.  W. !  Do  you  see  now?  You  wouldn't  let 
him  have  her!  You  wouldn't,  I.  W. !  Tell  me 
you  wouldn't!" 

"I  want  him  if  he  touches  her  to  be  struck  dead! 
I  want  him  to  be  struck  dead !" 

"Thank  God!"  said  Mrs.  Goldstone,  weeping  now 
tears  that  eased  her  breathing. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  toward  her,  his  voice  rather 

83 


HUMORESQUE 

quieter,  but  his  forefinger  waggling  out  toward  the 
open  door. 

"You  go!"  he  said,  and  then  in  a  gathering  hurri- 
cane of  fury,  "go!" 

"I.  W.,  don't  yell!    Don't!    Don't!" 

"Go — while  I'm  quiet.     Go — you  hear?" 

She  edged  around  him  where  he  stood,  in  fear  of 
his  white,  crouched  attitude. 

"I.W.!" 

He  made  a  step  toward  her,  and,  at  the  sound  in 
his  throat,  she  ran  out  into  the  hallway  and  down 
the  stairs  to  the  porch.  In  the  deep  shade  of  the 
veranda's  elbow  a  small  figure  lay  deep  in  sleep  in 
the  wicker  rocker,  one  bare  arm  up  over  her  head 
and  lips  parted. 

In  a  straight  chair  beside  her  Mrs.  Goldstone  sat 
down.  She  was  shuddering  with  chill  and  repeating 
to  herself,  quite  aloud  and  over  and  over  again: 

"What  have  I  done?  What  have  I  done ?  What 
have  I  done?" 

She  was  suddenly  silent  then,  staring  out  ahead, 
her  hands  clutching  the  chair-arms. 

To  her  inflamed  fancy,  it  was  as  if,  beyond  the 
hedge,  the  old  disused  hitching-post  had  become 
incarnate  and,  in  the  form  of  her  naive  and  horned 
conception,  was  coming  toward  her  with  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  bloodshot. 


A   PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

WERE  I  only  swifter  and  more  potent  of  pen,  I 
could  convey  to  you  all  in  the  stroke  of  a 
pestle  the  H2O,  the  pigment  of  the  red-cheeked 
apple,  the  blue  of  long  summer  days,  and  the  mag- 
nesia of  the  earth  for  which  Stella  Schump  was  the 
mortal  and  mortar  receptacle. 

She  was  about  as  exotic  as  a  flowering  weed 
which  can  spring  so  strongly  and  so  fibrously  from 
slack.  And  yet  such  a  weed  can  bleed  milk.  If 
Stella  Schump  was  about  fourteen  pounds  too 
plump,  too  red  of  cheek,  and  too  blandly  blue  of  eye, 
there  was  the  very  milk  of  human  kindness  in  her 
morning  punching  up  of  her  mother's  pillows  and 
her  smoothing  down  of  the  gray  and  poorly  hair. 
She  could  make  a  bed  freshly,  whitely,  her  strong 
young  arms  maneuvering  under  but  not  even  jar- 
ring the  poor  old  form  so  often  prone  there. 

There  was  a  fine  kind  of  virile  peasantry  in  the 
willing  hands,  white  enough,  but  occasionally  broken 
at  the  nails  from  eight  hours  of  this  box  in  and  that 
box  out  in  a  children's  shoe  department. 

Differing  by  the  fourteen  pounds,  Watteau  would 
have  scorned  and  Rubens  have  adored  to  paint  her. 

She  was  not  unconscious  of  the  rather  flaxen 

85 


HUMORESQUE 

ripple  of  her  hair,  which  she  wore  slickly  parted  and 
drawn  back,  scallop  by  scallop,  to  a  round  and 
shining  mat  of  plaits  against  the  back  of  her  head. 
But  neither  was  she  unconscious  that  she  thereby 
enhanced  the  too  high  pitch  of  her  cheek-bones  and 
the  already  too  generous  width  between  them.  It 
was  when  Stella  Schump  opened  wide  her  eyes  that 
she  transcended  the  milky  fleshliness  and  the  fact 
that,  when  she  walked  rapidly,  her  cheeks  quivered 
in  slight  but  gelatinous  fashion.  Her  eyes — they 
were  the  color  of  perfect  June  at  that  high-noon 
moment  when  the  spinning  of  the  humming-bird 
can  be  distilled  to  sound.  Laura  and  Marguerite 
and  Stella  Schump  had  eyes  as  blue  as  Cleopatra's, 
and  Sappho's  and  Medea's  must  have  been  green. 

For  reading  and  occasional  headaches,  she  wore  a 
pair  of  horn -rimmed  spectacles  prescribed  but  not 
specially  ground  by  the  optical  department,  eater- 
corner  from  the  children's  shoes.  Upon  the  occasion 
of  their  first  adjustment,  Romance,  for  the  first 
time,  had  leaned  briefly  into  the  smooth  monotony 
of  Miss  Schump 's  day-by-day,  to  waft  a  scented,  a 
lace-edged,  an  elusive  kerchief. 

"You  ought  to  heard,  mamma,  that  fellow  over  in 
the  specs,  when  he  gimme  the  test  for  the  glasses." 

"What?" 

"Tee-heel — it  sounds  silly  to  repeat  it." 

"You  got  the  Schump  eyes,  Stella.  I  always  used 
to  say,  with  his  big  blue  ones,  your  poor  father 
ought  to  been  a  girl,  too." 

"Say,'  he  said  to  me,  he  said,  just  like  that,  'I 
know  a  society  who  will  pay  you  a  big  fat  sum  if 

86 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

you'll  sign  over  them  eyes  for  post-mortem  laboratory 
work.  Believe  me,  Bettina,'  he  said,  just  like  that, 
'those  are  some  goo-goos!' ' 

"  'Goo-goos'?" 

"Yes,  ma — the  way  I  look  out  of  them." 

"See,  Stella,  if  you'd  only  mix  with  the  young 
men  and  not  be  so  stiff-like  with  them.  See !  Is  he 
the  sober,  genteel  kind  who  could  sit  out  an  evening 
in  a  self -respect  in'  girl's  front  parlor?" 

"I — I  can't  ask  a  fellow  if  he  didn't  ask  me,  can 
I?  I  can't  make  a  pusher  out  of  myself." 

"A  girl  don't  have  to  make  a  pusher  out  of  herself 
to  have  beaus;  it's  natural  for  her  to  have  them  in 
moderation.  I  don't  want  my  girl  shut  out  of  her 
natural  pleasures." 

"Believe  me,  Bettina,'  he  said,  'those  are  some 
goo-goos' — just  like  that,  he  said  it." 

"Before  I'd  let  a  girl  like  Cora  Kinealy  have  all 
the  beaus!  I  bet  she'd  ask  him." 

"It — it  just  ain't  in  me,  ma.  The  other  girls  do, 
I  know — you  ought  to  heard  the  way  Mabel  Runyan 
was  kiddin'  a  fellow  in  the  silks  to-day — it  just  ain't 
in  me  to." 

"Nowadays,  young  men  got  to  be  made  to  feel 
welcome." 

"I  just  don't  seem  to  take." 

"  'I'll  be  pleased  to  have  you  call  of  a  Saturday 
night,  Mr.  So-and-so.'  No  one  could  say  there's 
anything  but  the  genteel  in  that.  Those  are  just 
the  words  I  used  to  say  to  your  poor  father  when 
he  was  courtin'." 

"If  only  I— I  wouldn't  turn  all  red!" 
7  87 


HUMORESQUE 

"I  bet  Cora  Kinealy  would  have  asked  him." 
"I— I'll  ask  him,  ma." 

When  Stella  Schump  was  adjusting  her  black 
sleevelets  next  morning,  somewhat  obviously  ob- 
livious of  the  optical  department  across  the  aisle, 
a  blond,  oiled  head  leaned  out  at  her. 

"Mornin',  Goo-goo!" 

A  flush  that  she  could  feel  rush  up  and  that  would 
not  be  controlled  threw  her  into  a  state  of  agitation 
that  was  almost  abashing  to  behold. 

"Tee-hee!" 

"Believe  me,  Bettina,  those  are  some  goo-goos!" 

"I'd  be  pleased  to  have  you — come — to — ' 

"I  told  the  little  wifey  last  night,  'Angel  Face, 
I've  found  a  pair  of  goo-goos  that  are  a  close  runner- 
up  to  yours." 

Miss  Schump  turned  to  her  first  customer  of  the 
day,  the  flush  receding  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come  to 
scorch. 

"Copper  toes  for  the  little  boy?  Just  be  seated, 
please." 

Thus  did  the  odor  of  romance  lay  for  the  merest 
moment  upon  the  stale  air  of  Miss  Schump 's 
routine. 

Evenings,  in  the  high-ceilinged,  long-windowed, 
and  inside-shuttered  little  flat  in  very  West  Thir- 
teenth Street,  tucked  up  in  the  top  story  of  one  of 
&  row  of  made-over-into-apartments  residences  that 
boasted  each  a  little  frill  of  iron  balcony  and  railed- 
in  patch  of  front  lawn,  they  would  sit  beside  an  oil- 
lamp  with  a  flowered  china  shade,  Mrs.  Schump, 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

gnarled  of  limb  and  knotted  of  joint,  ever  busy, 
except  on  the  most  excruciatingly  rheumatic  of  her 
days,  at  a  needlework  so  cruel,  so  fine  that  for 
fifteen  years  of  her  widowhood  it  had  found  instant 
market  at  a  philanthropic  Woman's  Exchange. 

Very  often  Miss  Cora  Kinealy,  also  of  the  chil- 
dren's shoes,  would  rock  away  an  evening  in  that 
halo  of  lamplight,  her  hair  illuminated  to  copper  and 
her  hands  shuttling  in  and  out  at  the  business  of 
knitting.  There  were  frank  personal  discussions,  no 
wider  in  diameter  than  the  little  circle  of  light  itself. 

Miss  KINEALY  (slumped  in  her  chair  so  that  her 
knee  rose  higher  than  her  waist-line):  I  always  say 
of  Stella,  she's  one  nut  too  hard  for  me  to  crack, 
and  I've  cracked  a  good  many  in  my  life.  Why 
that  girl  'ain't  got  beaus  galore — well,  I  give  up! 

MRS.  SCHUMP  (stooped  for  an  infinitesimal  stab  oj 
needle):  She  don't  give  'em  a  chance,  Cora.  You 
can't  tell  me  there  is  not  many  a  nice,  sober  young 
man  wouldn't  be  glad  to  sit  out  a  Saturday  evening 
with  her.  She's  that  bashful  she  don't  give  'em  a 
chance.  I  tell  her  it's  almost  as  much  ruination 
to  a  girl  to  be  too  retiring  as  to  be  too  forward. 
She  don't  seem  to  have  a  way  with  the  boys. 

Miss  SCHUMP  (in  a  pink,  warm-looking  flannelette 
kimono  and  brushing  out  into  fine  fluff  her  flaxen- 
looking  hair,  and  then,  in  the  name  of  to-morrow' s  kink, 
plaiting  it  into  a  multitude  of  small,  tight-looking 
braids):  You  can  talk,  mamma.  You,  too,  Cora, 
with  a  boy  like  Archie  Sensenbrenner  and  your  wed- 
ding-day in  sight.  But  what's  a  girl  goin'  to  do  if 
she  don't  take;  if  she  ain't  got  an  Archie? 


HUMORESQUE 

MRS.  SCHUMP  (riding  her  glasses  down  toward  the 
end  of  her  nose  to  look  up  sharply  over  them) :  Get  one. 

"There  you  go  again!  Honest,  you  two  make  me 
mad.  I  can't  go  out  and  lasso  'em,  can  I?" 

"She  doesn't  give  'em  a  chance,  Cora;  mark  my 
word!  The  trouble  is,  she's  too  good  for  most  she 
sees.  They  ain't  up  to  her." 

"I  can't  understand  it,  Mrs.  Schump.  I  always 
say  there  ain't  a  finer  girl  on  the  floor  than  Stella. 
When  I  see  other  girls,  most  of  'em  fresh  little  rag- 
timers  that  ain't  worth  powder  and  shot,  bringing 
down  the  finest  kind  of  fellows,  and  Stella  never 
asked  out  or  nothing,  I  always  say  to  myself,  'I 
can't  understand  it.'  Take  me — what  Arch  Sensen- 
brenner  ever  seen  in  me,  with  Stella  and  her  com- 
plexion working  in  the  same  department — " 

"You  got  a  way,  Cora.  There's  just  something 
about  me  don't  take  with  the  boys.  Honest,  if  I 
could  only  see  one  of  you  girls  alone  with  a  fellow 
once,  to  see  how  you  do  it!" 

"Just  listen  to  her,  Mrs.  Schump,  with  her  eyes 
and  complexion  and  all!" 

"There's  not  a  reason  my  girl  shouldn't  have  it  as 
good  and  better  than  the  best  of  them.  She's  a  good 
girl,  Cora.  Stella's  a  good  girl  to  me." 

"Aw,  mamma — " 

"Don't  I  know  it,  Mrs.  Schump!  I  always  say 
if  ever  a  girl  would  make  some  nice-earning,  steady 
fellow  a  good  wife,  it's — " 

"'Good  wife'!  That  ain't  the  name!  Why, 
Cora,  for  ten  years  that  child  has  lifted  me  on  my 
bad  days  and  carried  me  and  babied  me  like  I  was  a 

90 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

queen.  It's  nothing  for  her  to  rub  me  two  hours 
straight.  Not  a  day  before  she  leaves  for  work 
that  she  don't  come  to  me  and — " 

"Fellows  don't  care  about  that  kind  of  thing. 
A  girl's  got  to  have  pep  and  something  besides 
complexion  and  elbow-grease.  I'm  too  fat." 

"She's  always  sayin'  she's  too  fat.  With  one 
pound  off,  would  she  look  as  good,  Cora?  If  I 
hadn't  been  as  plump  as  a  partridge  in  my  girl-days 
— and  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  I  was  as  fine  a  lookin' 
girl  as  my  Stella — do  you  think  Dave  Schump  would 
have  had  eyes  for  me?  Not  if  I  was  ten  times  the 
woman  I  was  for  him." 

"Sure  she  ain't  too  fat,  Mrs.  Schump.  I  always 
tell  her  it's  her  imagination.  I  know  a  girl  bigger 
than  she  is  that's  keeping  company  with  an  expert 
piano-tuner.  Why,  I  know  girls  twice  her  size. 
Stella's  got  a  right  good  figure,  she  has." 

"Lots  of  good  it  does  me!  I —  It's  just  like 
my  brains  to  go  right  to  my  hands,  once  you  put 
me  with  a  fellow.  That  time  your  brother  Ed  called 
for  me  for  that  party  at  your  house  —  honest,  I 
couldn't  open  my  mouth  to  him." 

"Can't  understand  it!  'Honest,'  I  says  to  Ed 
that  time  after  the  party,  I  says  to  him,  'Ed,  why 
don't  you  go  over  and  call  on  Stella  Schump  and 
take  her  to  a  movie  or  something?  She's  my  idea 
of  a  girl,  Stella  is.'  Think  I  could  budge  him? 
'Naw,'  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him.  Just,  'Naw.' 
Honest,  I  could  have  shook  him.  But  did  he  run 
down  to  that  little  flirt  of  a  Gert  Cobb's  the  very 
same  night?  He  did.  Honest,  like  I  said  to  Arch,  it 


HUMORESQUE 

makes  me  sick.  Is  it  any  wonder  the  world  is  filled 
with  little  flips  like  Gert  Cobb,  the  way  the  fellows 
fall  for 'em?" 

"I  never  could  be  fresh  with  a  boy.  Take  that 
time  at  your  party.  I  bet  your  brother  Ed  would 
have  liked  me  better  if  I'd  have  got  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  with  him,  like  he  wanted  me  to 
and  like  Gert  did,  to  see  who  could  blow  the  biggest 
bunch  of  suds  off  his  stein.  I  never  could  be  fresh 
with  a  fellow." 

"That's  just  the  trouble,  Mrs.  Schump.  Stella 
don't  see  the  difference  between  what's  fresh  and 
what's  just  fun.  Is  there  anything  wrong  about 
one  stein  of  beer  in  a  jolly  crowd?  A  girl  can  be 
nice  without  being  goody-good.  If  there's  anything 
a  fellow  hates,  it's  a  goody-good.  Take  a  fellow  like 
Arch — you  think  he'd  have  any  time  for  me  if  I 
wasn't  a  good-enough  sport  to  take  a  glass  of  beer 
with  him  maybe  once  a  week  when  he  gets  to  feeling 
thirsty?  Nothing  rough.  Everything  in  modera- 
tion, I  always  say.  But  there's  a  difference,  Mrs. 
Schump,  between  being  rough  and  being  a  goody- 
good." 

"There's  something  in  what  you  say,  Cora.  I've 
had  her  by  me  so  much,  maybe  I've  tried  to  raise 
her  a  little  over-genteel.  There  ain't  one  single  bad 
appetite  she's  got  to  be  afraid  of.  It's  not  in  her. 
I  used  to  tell  her  poor  father,  one  glass  of  beer  could 
make  him  so  crazy  loony  he  never  had  to  try  how 
two  tasted." 

"I'm  bashful,  and  what  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"Say,  you  and  Ed's  foreman  ought  to  meet 

92 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

together!  Honest,  you'd  be  a  pair!  Ed  brought 
him  to  the  house  one  night.  Finest  boy  you  ever 
seen.  Thirty-five  a  week,  steady  as  you  make  'em; 
and  when  they  put  in  girls  to  work  down  at  the 
munitions-plant  where  him  and  Ed  works,  Ed  said 
it  was  all  they  could  do  to  keep  him  from  throwing 
up  his  job  from  fright.  Whatta  you  know?  A 
dandy  fellow  like  him,  with  a  dagger-shaped  scar 
clear  down  his  arm  from  standing  by  his  job  that 
time  when  the  whole  south  end  of  the  plant  exploded. 
A  fellow  that  could  save  a  whole  plant  and  two 
hundred  lives  afraid  to  face  a  few  skirts!  Crazy  to 
get  married.  Told  Ed  so.  Always  harping  on  his 
idea  of  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair,  and  then,  when 
he  gets  the  chance,  afraid  of  a  few  skirts!" 

"That's  me  every  time  with  fellows.  I  get  to 
feelin'  down  inside  of  me  something  terrible — • 
scary — and  all." 

"Say,  I'll  tell  you  what!  I'll  get  Ed  to  bring  him 
down  to  Gert  Cobb's  party  next  Saturday  night, 
and  you  come,  too." 

"I?" 

"There's  two  of  a  kind  for  you,  Mrs.  Schump. 
A  fellow  that's  more  afraid  of  girls  than  explosions, 
and  a  girl  that's  afraid  to  blow  a  little  foam  off  a 
glass  of  beer!  Them  two  ought  to  meet.  Me  and 
Arch  and  Ed  '11  fix  it  up.  How's  that  for  a  scheme? 
Now  say  I  ain't  your  friend!  Are  you  game?" 

"I  don't  go  out  tryin'  to  meet  fellows  that  way." 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Schump,  the  way  she  puts  a  gold 
fence  around  herself?" 

4 '  Cora's  puttin*  herself  out  for  you,  Stella,  There's 

93 


HUMORESQUE 

no  harm  in  a  Saturday  night's  party  in  the  company 
of  Cora  and  some  genteel  friends." 

"Gert  Cobb  don't  know  I'm  on  earth." 

"You  hear,  Mrs.  Schump?  Is  it  any  wonder  she 
don't  get  out?  All  I  got  to  do  is  say  the  word, 
and  any  friend  of  mine  is  welcome  in  Gert  Cobb's 
house." 

"I'll  make  you  up  them  five  yards  of  pink  mull 
for  it,  Stella.  It's  a  shame  that  pretty  dress-pattern 
from  your  two  birthdays  ago  has  never  had  the  occa- 
sion to  be  made  up.  It's  nice  of  Cora  to  be  puttin' 
herself  out." 

' '  Look  at  'er,  like  I  was  asking  her  to  a  funeral !" 

"There's  such  a  pretty  sash  I  been  savin'  to  make 
up  with  that  mull,  Cora.  A  handsome  black-moire 
length  of  ribbon  off  a  beaded  basque  her  father 
gimme  our  first  Christmas  married." 

"I'll  lend  her  my  pink  pearls  to  wear.  Honest, 
I  never  knew  a  girl  could  wear  pink  like  Stella." 

Miss  Schump  leaned  forward  in  the  lamplight,  the 
myriad  of  tight  little  braids  at  angles,  but  her  eyes 
widening  to  their  astounding  blueness. 

"Not  your — pink  beads,  Cora?" 

"You  heard  me  the  first  time,  didn't  you ?  ' Pink ' 
was  what  I  said." 

"Ma!" 

"Now  ain't  that  nice  of  Cora?" 

"Quick — are  you  game?" 

"Why,  yes— Cora." 

There  is  a  section  of  New  York  which  rays  out 
rather  crazily  from  old  Jefferson  Market  and  Night 

94 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

Court  in  spokes  of  small  streets  that  seem  to  run 
at  haphazard  angles  each  to  the  other — that  less 
sooty  part  of  Greenwich  not  yet  invaded  by  the 
Middle  West  in  search  of  bohemia.  An  indescribable 
smack  of  Soho  here,  tired  old  rows  of  tired  old 
houses  going  down  year  by  year  before  the  wrecker's 
ax,  the  model  tenement  rising  insolently  before  the 
scar  is  cold. 

It  is  that  part  of  the  Latin  Quarter  which  is  literally 
just  that,  lying  slightly  to  the  south  and  slightly  to 
the  west  of  that  odd-fellow's  land  of  short-haired 
women  and  long-haired  men.  Free  love,  free  verse, 
free  thought,  free  speech,  and  freed  I.  W.  W.'s  have  no 
place  here.  For  three  blocks  a  little  Italy  runs  riot 
in  terms  of  pastry,  spaghetti,  and  plaster-of-Paris 
shops,  and  quite  as  abruptly  sobers  and  becomes 
Soho  again.  A  Greek  church  squats  rather  broadly 
at  the  intersection  of  three  of  these  streets. 

There  intervened  between  Stella  Schump's  and 
the  six-story  model  tenement  adjoining  the  Greek 
church  which  Miss  Gertrude  Cobb  called  home,  a 
rhomboid  of  park,  municipally  fitted  with  play- 
ground apparatus,  the  three-block  riot  of  little 
Italy,  the  gloomy  barracks  of  old  Jefferson  Market 
and  Night  Court,  and  a  few  more  blocks  of  still 
intact,  tired  old  rows  of  tired  old  houses. 

On  a  spring  night  that  was  as  insinuatingly  sweet 
as  the  crush  of  a  rose  to  the  cheek  there  walked 
through  these  lowly  streets  of  lower  Manhattan 
Mr.  Archie  Sensenbrenner,  bounded  on  the  north 
by  a  checked,  deep-visored  cap;  on  the  south  by  a 
very  bulldogged  and  very  tan  pair  of  number  nines; 

95 


HUMORESQUE 

on  the  east  by  Miss  Cora  Kinealy,  very  much  of  the 
occasion  in  a  peaked  hood  faced  in  eider-down  and 
a  gay  silk  bag  of  slippers  dangling;  on  the  west  by 
Miss  Stella  Schump,  a  pink  scarf  entwining  her  head 
like  a  Tanagra. 

"Honest,  Cora,  I  feel  just  like  I'm  intruding." 

"'Intrudin'!  Would  I  have  invited  her  if  we 
didn't  want  her,  Arch?" 

"Naw." 

"  'There's  always  room  for  one  more,'  is  my  motto. 
I  believe  it  always  comes  home  to  the  girl  that  don't 
share  her  good  times.  If  me  and  Arch  couldn't 
call  by  for  a  girl  on  our  way  to  a  party,  I'd  feel  sorry 
for  us.  Give  her  your  arm,  Arch." 

"Here!    I  tried  once  to,  and  she  wouldn't  take  it.'* 

Miss  Schump  hooked  a  highly  diffident  hand  into 
Mr.  Sensenbrenner's  sharply  jutted  elbow. 

"You  two  go  on  and  talk  together.  I've  chewed 
Arch's  right  ear  off  already." 

"It's  a  grandevenin' — ain'tit.Mr.Sensenbrenner?" 

At  that  from  Miss  Schump,  Miss  Kinealy  exe- 
cuted a  very  soprano  squeal  that  petered  out  in  a 
titter  of  remonstrances. 

"Arch  Sensenbrenner,  if  you  don't  stop  pinching 
me!  Honest,  my  arm's  black  and  blue!  Honest! 
What  '11  Stella  think  we  are?  Now  cut  it  out!" 

They  walked  a  block  in  silence,  but,  beside  her, 
Miss  Schump  could  feel  them  shaking  to  a  duet  of  sup- 
pressed laughter,  and  the  red  in  her  face  rose  higher 
and  a  little  mustache  of  the  tiniest  of  perspiration 
beads  came  out  over  her  lip.  The  desire  to  turn  back, 
the  sudden  ache  for  the  quietude  of  the  little  halo  of 

96 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

lamplight  and  the  swollen  finger-joints  of  her  mother 
in  and  out  at  work,  were  almost  not  to  be  withstood. 

"I —  You — you  and  Mr.  Sensenbrenner  go  on, 
Cora.  I — me  not  knowin'  Gertie  Cobb  and  all — I — 
I — feel  I'm  intruding.  You  and  him  go  on.  Please!" 

Miss  Kinealy  crossed  to  her,  kindly  at  once  and 
sobered. 

"Now,  Stella  Schump,  you're  coming  right  to 
this  party  with  me  and  Arch.  We  can't  do  more 
than  tell  her  she's  welcome,  can  we,  Arch?" 

"Sure." 

"I  promised  your  mother  I'm  going  to  see  to  it  that 
you  get  away  from  her  apron-strings  and  out  among 
young  folks  more,  and  you're  coming  right  to  this 
party  with  me  and  Arch.  Ain't  I  right,  Arch?" 

"Sure." 

"You  mustn't  feel  bad,  honey,  that  Ed  couldn't 
get  John  Gilly  to  come  around  and  call  after  you. 
Ed  says  he'd  never  get  him  to  steam  up  his  nerve 
enough  to  call  at  a  girl's  house  after  her;  but  ain't 
it  enough  he's  coming  to  Gert's  to-night  just  to  meet 
you?  You  ought  to  heard  him  when  Ed  got  to  tell- 
ing him  what  kind  of  a  girl  you  was.  'Gee !'  Ed  says 
he  says.  'Big  blue  eyes  like  saucers  sounds  good  to 
me!  Well,'  he  says,  Ed  says  he  says,  'if  my  nerve 
don't  lay  down  on  me,  I'll  show  up  there  with  you.' 
That's  something,  ain't  it,  for  a  fellow  like  John 
Gilly  to  do  just  to  meet  a  girl?  Ain't  it,  Arch,  for 
that  fine,  big  fellow,  Ed's  foreman,  you  seen  up  at 
our  house  that  night  ?  You  know  the  one  I  mean, 
the  one  with  his  arm  scalded  up  from  the  explosion." 

"Sure." 

97 


HUMORESQUE 

"Honest,  if  I  wasn't  already  tagged  and  spoken 
for,  I'd  set  my  cap  for  him  myself." 

"  '  Mother,  mother,  mother,  pin  a  rose  on  me!'  "-f 
cried  Mr.  Sensenbrenner,  with  no  great  pertinence. 

Miss  Kinealy  threw  him  a  northwest  glance. 
"Ain't  he  the  cut-up,  Stella?" 

"He  sure  is." 

"Br-a-a-y!"  said  Mr.  Sensenbrenner,  again  none 
too  relevantly. 

"Oh,  show  her  the  way  the  zebra  in  the  Park  goes 
on  Sunday  morning,  Arch!" 

He  inserted  two  fingers,  splaying  his  mouth. 
' '  Heigh-ho !  He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e !" 

"Ain't  that  lifelike,  Stella?" 

"It  sure  is." 

"Oh,  look!  Up  there  —  the  third  story  —  see  — 
those  are  the  Cobbs'  windows,  all  lit  up!  Oh, 
gee!  I  just  can't  make  my  feet  behave.  Waltz  me 
around  again,  Archie!  No;  you  got  to  take  the 
first  dance  with  Stella." 

"Oh  no,  Cora;   he  wants — " 

"You  hear,  Arch?" 

"Sure;  only,  I  can't  force  her  if  she  don't  want 
to." 

"Sure  she  wants  to!  Hurry!  I  hear  Skinnay 
Flint's  ukulele.  Gee!  I  just  can't  make  my  feet 
be-have!" 

They  entered  an  institutional,  sanitary,  and  legis- 
lation-smelling box  of  foyer  and  up  three  flights  of 
fire-proof  stairs.  At  each  landing  were  four  fire- 
proof doors,  lettered.  The  Cobbs'  door,  "H," 
stood  open,  an  epicene  medley  of  voices  and  laughter 

98  ' 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

floating  down  the  long  neck  of  hallway  on  the  syn- 
copated whine  of  a  ukulele. 

There  was  an  immediate  parting  of  ways,  Mr. 
Sensenbrenner  hanging  his  cap  on  an  already  well- 
filled  rack  of  pegs  and  making  straight  for  the  sound 
of  revelry  by  night. 

The  girls  made  foray  into  a  little  side  pocket  of 
bedroom  for  the  changing  of  shoes,  whitening  of 
noses,  and  various  curlicue  preambles. 

"Stella,  your  hair  looks  swell!" 

"Ma  plaited  it  up  last  night  with  sugar-water." 

"Here,  just  this  speck  on  your  lips,  just  a  little 
to  match  your  cheeks! —  See — all  the  girls  use  it." 

"Ugh— no—  " 

"There,  just  a  stroke.  Fine!  Say,  wasn't  Arch 
killing  to-night  when  he  called  my  cheeks  naturally 
curly?" 

"You  look  grand,  Cora.  Sure  you  don't  want 
your  pink  beads?" 

"I'll  throw  'em  down  and  step  on  'em  if  you  take 
'em  off." 

"I  just  love  that  changeable  silk  on  you." 

"Does  the  split  under  the  arm  show?" 

"Notta  bit." 

"Come  on,  then!" 

"Oh,  Cora—" 

"Come  on!" 

In  the  Cobb  front  room  a  frightened  exodus  of 
furniture  had  taken  place.  A  leather-and-oak  "dav- 
enbed"  had  obviously  and  literally  been  dragged 
to  the  least  conspicuous  corner.  An  unpainted  cen- 
ter of  floor  space  showed  that  there  had  been  a  rug. 

99 


HUMORESQUE 

Camp-chairs  had  been  introduced  against  all  avail- 
able wall  space.  Only  a  fan-shaped,  three-shelved 
cabinet  of  knickknacks  had  been  allowed  its  corner. 
Diagonal  from  it,  the  horn  of  a  talking-machine, 
in  shape  a  large,  a  violent,  a  tin  morning-glory,  was 
directed  full  against  the  company. 

Not  a  brilliant  scene,  except  by  grace  or  grace- 
lessness  of  state  of  mind.  But  to  Stella  Schump, 
neither  elected  nor  electing  to  walk  in  greater 
glory,  there  was  that  about  the  Cobb  front  room 
thus  lighted,  thus  animated,  that  gave  her  a  sense 
of  function — a  crowding  around  the  heart.  The 
neck  of  hallway  might  have  been  a  strip  of  purple, 
awninged. 

There  were  greetings  that  rose  in  crescendo  and 
falsetto. 

"Cora  Kinealy!  Hello,  Cora!  How's  every  lit- 
tle thing?"  "Baby-shoes— tra-la-la!"  "Oh,  you 
changeable-silk  kiddo!  Turn  green  for  the  ladies." 
"Come  on  over  here,  Cora,  and  make  Arch  tell 
fortunes!" 

"Gertie,  this  is  my  girl  friend,  Stella,  from  the 
shoes,  I  brought.  Y'know?  I  told  you  about 
her.  Ed's  bringing  down  a  gentleman  friend  for 
her." 

Miss  Gertie  Cobb,  so  blond,  so  small,  so  titilla- 
ting that  she  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  one  of 
those  Dresden  table-candelabra  under  a  pink  glass- 
fringed  shade  with  the  fringe  always  atinkle,  laughed 
upward  in  a  voice  eons  too  old. 

"Make  yourself  right  at  home.  At  our  house,  it's 
what  you  don't  see  ask  for.  Skin-nay  Flint,  if  you 

100 


A    PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

don't  stop!  Make  him  quit,  Cora;  he's  been  ticklin' 
me  something  awful  with  that  little  old  feather  dus- 
ter he  brought  along.  Whatta  you  think  this  is — • 
Coney  Island  ?  E-e-e-e-e-e !" 

There  ensued  a  scramble  down  the  length  of  the 
room,  Miss  Cobb  with  her  thin,  bare  little  arms  flung 
up  over  her  head,  Miss  Kinealy  tugging  and  then 
riding  in  high  buffoonery  over  the  bare  floor,  firmly 
secured  to  Mr.  Flint's  coattails. 

"Leggo!" 

"Quit — ouch — e-e-e-e-e!  That's  right;  give  it  to 
him!  Cora — go  to  it — e-e-e-e-e — 

Lips  lifted  to  belie  a  sinkage  of  heart,  Miss  Schump, 
left  standing,  backed  finally,  sinking  down  to  one  of 
the  camp-chairs  against  the  wall.  The  little  glitter- 
ing mustache  had  come  out  again,  and,  sitting  there, 
her  smile  so  insistently  lifted,  the  pink  pearls  at  her 
throat  rose  and  fell.  The  ukulele  was  whanging 
again,  and  a  couple  or  two,  locked  cheek  to  cheek, 
were  undulating  in  a  low-lidded  kind  of  ecstasy. 
Finally,  Cora  Kinealy  and  Archie  Sensenbrenner, 
rather  uglily  oblivious. 

A  youth,  frantic  to  outdistance  a  rival  for  the 
dancing-hand  of  Miss  Gertie  Cobb,  stumbled  across 
Miss  Schump's  carefully  crossed  ankles. 

"  'Scuse,"  he  said,  without  glancing  back. 

"Certainly,"  said  Miss  Schump,  through  aching 
tonsils. 

There  was  an  encore,  the  raucous-throated  morn- 
ing-glory taking  up  where  the  ukulele  had  left  off. 
Miss  Schump  sat  on,  the  smile  drawn  more  and  more 
resolutely  across  her  face.  Occasionally,  to  indicate 

101 


HUMORESQUE 

a  state  of  social  ease,  she  caught  an  enforced  yawn 
with  her  hand. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Cobb  entered,  quietly,  almost 
furtively,  hands  wrapped  muff  fashion  in  a  checked 
apron,  sitting  down  softly  on  the  first  of  the  camp- 
chairs  near  the  door.  She  had  the  dough  look  of  the 
comfortable  and  the  uncorseted  fat,  her  chin  adding 
a  scallop  as,  watching,  her  smile  grew. 

"It's  great  to  watch  the  young  ones,"  she  said, 
finally. 

Miss  Schump  moved  gratefully,  oh,  so  gratefully, 
two  chairs  over. 

"It  sure  is,"  she  said,  assuming  an  attitude  of 
conversation. 

' '  Like  I  tell  Gert,  it  makes  me  young  again  myself." 
"It  sure  does." 

"Give  it  to  'em  in  the  house,  I  say,  and  it  keeps 
'em  in  off  the  street." 

"Your  daughter  is  sure  one  pretty  girl." 
"Gert's  a  good-enough  girl,  if  I  could  keep  her  in. 
I  tell  'er  of  all  my  young  ones  she's  the  prettiest 
and  the  sassiest.     Law,  how  that  girl  can  sass!" 

"Like  my  mother  always  says  to  me  about  sass, 
sass  never  gets  a  girl  nowheres." 

"Indeed  it  don't!     It's  lost  her  more  places  than 
my  other  two,  married  now,  ever  lost  put  together. 
You  work  in  the  Criterion?" 
"Yes'm.    Children's  shoes." 
"I  bet  you're  not  the  kind  of  a  girl  to  change  places 
every  week." 

"No'm.  Criterion  is  the  only  place  I  ever  worked 
at.  I  started  there  as  Cash." 

102 


A    PETAL  ON   THE   CURRENT 

"I  bet  you  give  up  at  home  out  of  your  envelop." 

"Yes'm." 

"Father?" 

"No'm.  He  was  a  night  watchman  and  got  shot 
on  duty." 

"Mother?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Brother?" 

"No'm." 

"Sister?" 

"  No'm." 

"Only  child,  huh?" 

"Yes'm." 

Then  Miss  Cobb  blew  up  in  a  state  of  breathless 
haste  and  bobbing  of  curls. 

"Eats,  maw  -  -  eats!  The  crowd's  thirsty  — 
spittin' cotton.  What's  the  idea?  My  tongue's  out. 
Eats!  Quick,  for  Gawsakes — eats!" 

Mrs  Cobb,  wide  and  quivery  of  hip,  retreated 
precipitately  into  the  slit  of  hallway.  Almost 
immediately  there  were  refreshments,  carried  in  on 
portentous  black  tin  trays  by  a  younger  Cobb  in 
pigtails  and  by  Mrs.  Cobb,  swayback  from  a  great 
outheld  array  of  tumblers  and  bottles. 

A  shout  went  up. 

The  tray  of  sandwiches,  piled  to  an  apex,  scarcely 
endured  one  round  of  passing.  The  fluted  tin  tops 
of  bottles  were  pried  off.  Tumblers  clicked.  There 
were  the  sing  of  suds  and  foamy  overflowings. 

Enter  Mr.  Ed  Kinealy,  very  brown  and  tight  of 
suit,  very  black  and  pomaded  of  hair. 

"Oh,  Ed!"      This   from   Miss  Kinealy  between 

8  103 


HUMORESQUE 

large  mouthfuls  of  sandwich  and  somewhat  jerkily, 
from  being  dandled  on  Mr.  Sensenbrenner's  knee. 
"Where's  your  friend — where's  John  Gilly?" 

"Oh,  Ed!"  "Naouw,  Eh-ud!"  "I'll  give  you  a 
slap  on  the  wrist."  "Naouw,  Ed!"  Delivered  by 
those  present  in  a  chorus  of  catcalls  and  falsetto 
impersonations  of  Miss  Kinealy  in  plaintive  vein. 

"Now  tell  me — where  is  he,  Ed?  Shut,  up  every- 
body! Where  is  he,  Ed?" 

Mr.  Kinealy  shot  a  pair  of  very  striped  cuffs. 

"That  guy  had  sense.  One  whiff  of  this  rough- 
house  and  he  bolted  down  again,  six  steps  at  a  jump. 
He  slipped  me  so  easy  I  was  talking  to  myself  all 
the  way  tip-stairs.  That  guy  had  sense.  Petti- 
coat shush-shush  can't  put  nothing  over  on  him." 

"Aw,  Ed!" 

CHORUS:    Aw,  Eh-ud!    Aw,  Eh-ud!    Naouw— 

"And  him  dated  for  Stella!  Honest,  it's  a  rotten 
shame!"  Suddenly  Miss  Kinealy  flashed  to  her  feet, 
her  glance  running  quick.  "Where  is  she?  Well, 
Stella  Schump,  sitting  over  there  playing  chums 
with  yourself!  Honest,  your  name  ought  to  be 
Chump!  Whatta  you  think  that  is — the  amen  cor- 
ner? You're  a  fine  bunch  of  social  entertainers, 
you  fellows  are!  Bring  her  up  a  chair.  Gee!  you 
are!  Honest,  Gertie  Cobb,  I  wouldn't  want  my  cat 
to  be  company  to  you!  Bring  'er  up  a  chair,  Ed. 
Here,  next  to  me!  Honest,  it's  a  rotten  shame! 
Give  'er  a  sandwich.  Open  'er  up  a  bottle.  Gee  I 
you're  a  fine  crowd  of  fish,  you  are!" 

There  was  a  general  readjustment  of  circle  and 
scraping  of  chairs.  Miss  Schump,  scarlet,  drew 

104 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

up  and  in,  Mr.  Kinealy  prying  off  a  fluted  top  for 
her. 

"Have  this  one  on  me,  Stella!"  he  cried.  "Your 
guy  bolted  of  stage  fright;  but  I'm  here,  and  don't 
you  forget  it!" 

"Aw — tee-hee!"  she  said,  wiping  at  her  upper 
lip. 

"Here!" 

She  regarded  the  foam  sing  down  into  amber  quiet. 

"I'm  on  the  water-wagon,"  she  said,  essaying  to 
be  light  of  vein,  crossing  her  hands  and  feet  and 
tilting  her  glance  at  him. 

"Say,  here's  a  girl  won't  blow  the  foam  off  a 
fellow's  glass  for  fear  she'll  get  soapsuds  in  her 
eyes!" 

"Wash  her  face  with  'em!" 

Miss  KINEALY:  Aw,  now,  Stella;  can't  you  be  a 
good  fellow  for  once  ?  Do  it,  if  it  hurts  you.  Honest, 
I  hate  to  say  it,  but  you're  the  limit,  you  are !  My 
God!  limber  up  a  little — limber  up! 

"Here,  now — open  your  mouth  and  shut  your 
eyes." 

"Open  it  for  her,  Ed." 

"Aw,  no;   don't  force  her  if  she  don't  want  it." 

"Gowann,  Stella;  be  human,  if  it  hurts  you." 

Redly  and  somewhat  painfully,  the  observed  of  all 
observers,  Miss  Schump  tilted  her  head  and  drank, 
manfully  and  shudderingly,  to  the  bitter  end  of  the 
glass. 

' '  Attaboy !  Say,  tell  it  to  the  poodles  and  the  great 
Danes!  That  Jane's  no  amachure!" 

Eyes  stung  to  tears,  pink  tip  of  her  tongue  quickly 


HUMORESQUE 

circling  her  lips,   Miss  Schump  held  out   to  Mr. 
Kinealy  the  empty  tumbler. 

"Now,  there!" 

"More?" 

"I'm  game." 

"Don't  give  'er  a  whole  glass,  Ed." 

She  drank,  again  at  one  whiff. 

"That's  more  like  it!  Didn't  kill  you,  did  it? 
Now  eat  that  Swiss-cheese  sandwich  and  come  over 
next  to  me  and  Arch  while  he  tells  fortunes." 

Miss  Schump  rose,  rather  high  of  head,  the  mo- 
ment hers. 

Miss  Kinealy  stretched  her  hand  out  into  the  cen- 
ter of  the  closing-in  circle  of  heads. 

"I  said  palm-reading,  Arch,  not  hand-holding. 
Leave  that  part  to  Ed  and  Gert  over  there.  Now 
quit  squeezing — " 

Mr.  Sensenbrenner  bent  low,  almost  nose  to  her 
palm. 

"I  see,"  he  began,  his  voice  widening  to  a  drawl 
— "I  se-e  a  fellow  about  my  size  and  complexion 
entering  your  life — " 

To  Miss  Schump,  her  hand  on  Miss  Kinealy's 
shoulder  and  her  head  peering  over,  the  voice 
seemed  to  trail  off  somewhere  out  into  infinitudes  of 
space,  off  into  bogs  of  eternity,  away  and  behind 
some  beyond. 

"Gee!  it's  hot  in  here!"  she  muttered,  no  one 
heeding  or  hearing.  "Sure  hot.  Whew!" 

"Going  on  a  long  journey,  and  a  fellow  about  my 
size  and  complexion  is  going  along  with  you,  and 
there's  money  coming — " 

1 06 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

"Sure  hot!"  It  was  then  Miss  Schump,  with  fear 
of  a  rather  growing  and  sickening  sense  of  dizziness 
and  of  the  wavy  and  unstable  outline  of  things, 
slipped  quietly  and  unobtrusively  out  into  the  hall- 
way, her  craving  for  air  not  to  be  gainsaid.  The 
door  to  the  little  bedroom  stood  open,  her  pink 
scarf  uppermost  on  the  cot-edge.  She  stood  for  an 
instant  in  the  doorway,  regarding  and  wanting  it, 
but  quite  as  suddenly  turned,  and  down  the  three 
flights  gained  the  dewy  quiet  of  out-of-doors,  fighting 
muzziness. 

The  street  had  long  since  fallen  tranquil,  the 
Greek  church  casting  immense  shadow.  The  air 
had  immediate  and  sedative  effect  upon  Miss 
Schump's  rather  distressing  symptoms  of  unrest,  but 
not  quite  allaying  a  certain  state  of  mental  upheaval. 
She  had  the  distinct  sensation  of  the  top  of  her  head 
lifted  off  from  the  eyebrows  up.  Her  state  of  light- 
headedness  took  voice. 

"Gimme,"  she  said,  lifting  the  pink-mull,  ankle- 
length  skirt  as  if  it  trailed  a  train  and  marching  off 
down-street;  "now  you  gimme!" 

An  entirely  new  lack  of  self-consciousness  en- 
hanced her  state  of  giddiness.  A  titter  seemed  to 
run  just  a  scratch  beneath  the  surface  of  her. 

The  passing  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  black  cape 
and  a  bulge  of  bundle  elicited  a  burst  of  laughter 
which  her  hand  clapped  to  her  mouth  promptly  sub- 
dued. Awaiting  the  passing  of  a  street-car,  she  was 
again  prone  to  easy  laughter. 

"Oh,  you!"  she  said,  quirking  an  eye  to  the  motor- 
man,  who  quirked  back. 

107 


HUMORESQUE 

Crossing  the  street,  she  came  down  rather  splash- 
ily  in  a  pool  of  water,  wetting  and  staining  the  light 
slippers. 

"Aw!"  she  repeated,  scolding  and  stamping  down 
at  them.  "Aw!  Aw!  You!" 

Across  from  the  gloomy  pile  of  old  Jefferson  Mar- 
ket, she  stood,  reading  up  at  an  illuminated  tower- 
clock,  softly,  her  lips  moving. 

' '  Nine — ten — e-lev-hun — ' ' 

A  dark  figure  slowed  behind  her  elbow;  she 
turned  with  a  sense  of  that  nearness  and  peered  up 
under  the  lowering  brim  of  a  soft-felt  hat. 

"Hoddado?" 

"Hello!"  she  answered,  slyly. 

"Hello!" 

She  peered  closer. 

"Got  a  girl?" 

"Nope." 

"Blow  suds?" 

"Where?" 

"Cora's." 

He  flung  back  his  coat,  revealing  a  star. 

"You're  under  arrest,"  he  said,  laconically. 
"Solicitin'.  Come  on;  no  fuss." 

Her  comprehension  was  unplumbed. 

"O  Lord!"  she  said,  pressing  inward  at  her  waist- 
line to  abet  laughter,  following  him  voluntarily 
enough,  and  her  voice  rising.  "You  make  me 
laugh.  You  make  me  laugh." 

"That  '11  do,"  he  said. 

"Whoop  la-la!" 

"Now,  you  get  noisy  and  watch  me." 
108 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

He  turned  in  rather  abruptly  at  a  side  door  of 
the  dark-red  pile  of  building  which  boasted  the 
illuminated  tower-clock  and  a  jutting  ell  with  barred 
windows 

She  drew  back. 

1 ' No,  you  don't !  Aw,  no,  you  don't !  Whatta  you 
think  I  yam?  Cora's!  Tell  it  to  the  poodles  and 
the  great  Danes!" 

He  shoved  her  with  scant  ceremony  beyond  the 
heavy  door.  She  entered  in  one  of  the  uncontrol- 
lable gales  of  laughter,  the  indoor  heat  immediately 
inducing  the  dizziness. 

"Whatta  you  think  I  yam?  Tell  it  to  the  poodles 
and  the  great  Danes!" 

Thirty  minutes  later,  in  a  court-room  as  smeared 
of  atmosphere  as  a  dirty  window,  a  bridge  officer, 
reading  from  a  slip  of  paper,  singsonged  to  the 
sergeant-at-arms : 

"Stella  Schump.     Officer  Charles  Costello." 

How  much  more  daringly  than  my  poor  pen  would 
venture,  did  life,  all  of  a  backhanded,  flying  leap 
of  who  knows  what  centrifugal  force,  transcend 
for  Stella  Schump  the  vague  boundaries  of  the 
probable. 

The  milky-fleshed,  not  highly  sensitized,  pinkly 
clean  creature  of  an  innotence  born  mostly  of 
ignorance  and  slow  perceptions,  who  that  morning 
had  risen  sweet  from  eleven  hours  of  unrestless 
sleep  beside  a  mother  whose  bed  she  had  never 
missed  to  share,  suddenly  here  in  slatternliness!  A 
draggled  night  bird  caught  in  the  aviary  of  night 
court,  lips  a  deep  vermilion  scar  of  rouge,  hair  out 

109 


HUMORESQUE 

of  scallop  and  dragging  at  the  pins,  the  too  ready 
laugh  dashing  itself  against  what  must  be  owned  a 
hiccough. 

Something  congenital  and  sleeping  subcutaneously 
beneath  the  surface  of  her  had  scratched  through. 
She  was  herself,  strangely  italicized. 

A  judge  regarded  her  not  unkindly.  There  were 
two  of  him,  she  would  keep  thinking,  one  merging 
slightly  into  his  prototype. 

She  stood,  gazing  up.  Around  her  swam  the 
court-room  —  rows  of  faces;  comings  and  goings 
within  her  railed  area.  And  heat — the  dizzying,  the 
exciting  heat — and  the  desire  to  shake  off  the  some 
one  at  her  elbow.  That  some  one  was  up  before  her 
now,  in  a  chair  beside  the  judge,  and  his  voice  was 
as  far  away  as  Archie  Sensenbrenner's. 

"And  she  says  to  me,  she  says,  your  Honor, 
'Got  a  girl?'" 

"Were  those  her  exact  words  to  you?" 

"Yes,  your  Honor." 

"Proceed.' 

"And  I  says  to  her,  I  says,  'No/  and  then  she 
comes  up  close  and  says  to  me,  she  says,  '  Buy  me  a 
drink?'" 

"Were  those  her  exact  words?" 

"Yes,  your  Honor,  as  near  as  I  can  remember. 

"Go  on." 

"And  I  says  to  her,  'Where  do  you  want  to  go?' 
and  she  says  to  me,  giving  me  a  wink,  'Cora's." 

"Cora's?" 

"Yes,  your  Honor;  the  Cora  Jones  mulatto 
woman  that  was  cleaned  out  last  week." 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

"She  suggested  that  you  accompany  her  to  the 
house  of  the  Jones  woman?" 

"Beg  pardon,  your  Honor?" 

"She  suggested  this  resort?" 

"Yes,  your  Honor.     'Cora  Jones,'  she  said." 

Through  the  smoke  of  her  bewilderment  some- 
thing irate  stirred  within  Miss  Schump,  a  smouldering 
sense  of  anger  that  burst  out  into  a  brief  tongue  of 
flame. 

"You!  You!  You're  no  amachure!  Cora  Jones! 
Cora  Kinealy !  Go  tell  it  to  the  great  Danes !  Say  it 
again!  Gimme  leave!  Gimme  leave!"  The  imme- 
diate peremptoriness  of  the  gavel  set  her  to  blinking, 
but  did  not  silence.  "'Gimme  leave,'  was  what  I 
said—" 

"Come  to  order  in  the  court!" 

"Aw!" 

A  new  presence  at  her  elbow  grasped  her  sharply. 
She  subsided,  but  still  muttering. 

"Proceed,  officer." 

"And  then,  when  she  starts  off  with  me,  I  says  to 
her,  I  says,  'You're  under  arrest,'  and  brought  her 
over." 

"That  '11  do." 

"Does  the  defendant  wish  to  take  the  chair?" 

From  her  elbow,  "His  Honor  asks  if  you  want  to 
state  your  case." 

"Huh?" 

' '  Do  you  wish  to  state  your  case  from  the  witness- 
chair?  Since  you  did  not  employ  counsel,  do  you 
wish  to  state  your  own  case?" 

"Nit." 

Ill 


HUMORESQUE 

"Look  up  here,  my  girl.  I  am  the  judge,  trying 
to  help  you." 

"Aw!" 

"Is  this  your  first  offense?" 

"Well,  it's  my  offense,  ain't  it?" 

"Address  the  court  properly.  Are  you  intoxi- 
cated or  only  slightly  dizzy?" 

"He  lied  about  Cora  Kinealy.  He  lied  —  that 
little  skunk  lied." 

"Didn't  you  ask  him  to  go  there  with  you?" 

"Sure;   but  he's  no  amachure." 

"Are  you?" 

"What?" 

"An  amateur?" 

"No,  this  Jane  ain't." 

"Will  you  go  quietly  into  the  next  room  with  the 
matron  and  tell  her  all  about  it?  The  court  does 
not  want  to  have  to  deal  too  harshly  with  a  girl  like 
you.  Do  you  want  to  engage  counsel  and  have 
your  case  go  over?  If  there  is  a  chance,  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  send  a  girl  like  you  away." 

"Aw,  you — you're  a  poodle  and  a  great  Dane!" 

"Ten  days,"  said  the  judge,  rather  wearily. 

The  bridge  officer  took  up  the  next  slip  from  the 
pile  of  them,  his  voice  the  droning  quality  of  a  bee 
bumbling  through  sultry  air: 

"Maizie  Smith.     Officer  Jerry  Dinwiddie." 

Spring  and  her  annual  epidemic  of  aching  hearts 
and  aching  joints  had  advanced  ten  days  and  ten 
degrees.  The  season's  first  straw  replacement  of 
derby  had  been  noted  by  press.  The  city  itched  in 


A    PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

its  last  days  of  woolens  and  drank  sassafras  tea 
for  nine  successive  mornings.  A  commuter  wore  the 
first  sweet  sprig  of  lilac.  The  slightly  East  Sixties 
took  to  boarding  up  house-fronts  into  bland,  eyeless 
masks.  The  very  East  Sixties  began  to  smell. 

When  a  strangely  larger-eyed,  strangely  thinner,  a 
whitened  and  somehow  a  tightened  Stella  Schump 
drew  up,  those  ten  days  later,  before  the  little  old 
row  with  the  little  old  iron  balconies,  there  was  al- 
ready in  the  ridiculous  patches  of  front  yards  a 
light-green  powdering  of  grass,  and  from  the  door- 
bell of  her  own  threshold  there  hung  quite  a  little 
spray  of  roses,  waxy  white  against  a  frond  of  fern 
and  a  fold  of  black.  Deeper  within  that  threshold, 
at  the  business  of  flooding  its  floor  with  a  run  of 
water  from  a  tipped  pail  and  sweeping  harshly  into 
it,  was  the  vigorous,  bony  silhouette  of  Mrs.  O'Con- 
nor, landlady. 

For  the  second  that  it  took  her  presence  to  be  felt, 
Miss  Schump  stood  there  trembling,  all  of  a  sudden 
more  deeply  and  more  rapidly.  Then,  Mrs.  O'Con- 
nor leaned  out,  bare  arms  folded  atop  her  broom. 

"So!"  she  said,  a  highly  imperfect  row  of  lower 
teeth  seeming  to  jut  out,  and  her  voice  wavy  with 
brogue  and  vibrant  to  express  all  its  scorn.  "So!" 

"Mrs.  O'Connor—" 

"So!  Ye've  come  back  in  time  for  the  buryin'! 
Faith,  an'  it's  a  foine  toime  for  the  showin'-up  of  the 
chief  mourner!  Faith  now  it  is!" 

"Mrs.  O'Connor—" 

"Ain't  ye  ashamed?  Ain't  ye  ashamed  before  the 
Lord  to  face  your  Maker?" 

"3 


HUMORESQUE 

' '  Please — please — Mrs.  O'Connor — what — what — ' ' 

"The  pasty-faced  lyin'  ways  of  ye!  I  can  see 
now  how  ye  look  what  ye  are!  I'd  have  believed 
it  as  soon  of  my  own.  It's  the  still  water  that  run 
deep  in  ye,  is  the  way  your  girl  friend  put  it.  The 
hussy  under  that  white  complexion  of  yours!  Your 
sainted  mither!  Oh,  ain't  ye  ashamed  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord  to  face  your  Maker?" 

"O  God— -please  what—" 

"Your  sainted  mither!  Niver,  after  that  letter 
from  ye  the  next  night  after  her  scourin'  the  city, 
a  whimper  more  out  of  her — " 

"I  wrote — I  wrote — they  gimme  a  stamp — I  wrote 
— how —  Where  is  she?" 

"A  cousin  had  called  ye  sudden-like  for  sickness 
was  how  she  put  it.  Faith  and  me  niver  once 
a-smellin'  the  mice,  the  way  she  lay  there,  waitin', 
waitin'  day  after  day,  doubled  up  in  the  joints  and 
waitin'  for  thim  ten  days  to  pass — " 

"O  God!" 

"I  found  her  in  bed  yisterday,  a-clutchin*  the 
letter,  or  niver  to  my  own  dyin'  would  I  have  known 
the  shameful  truth  of  it.  It's  screw  open  her  poor 
hands  I  had  to,  for  the  readin'  of  the  letter  that  had 
been  eatin'  'er  for  all  them  days  of  waitin'.  Ye 
hussy!  Ye  jailbird — and  me  niver  thinkin'  but 
what  it  was  the  sick  cousin!  Me  niver  smellin'  the 
mice!  Your  own  girl  friend,  neither.  Ye  hussy! 
Jailbird!" 

"Oh!    Oh!    Oh!" 

"It's  only  because  she  was  sainted  I'm  lettin'  ye 
up  in  on  her.  She  layin'  up  there,  waitin'.  Strangers 

114 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

that  crossed  her  poor  hands  on  her  poor  breast  and 
strangers  that  laid  her  out.  Niver  even  a  priest 
called  in  on  her.  She  a-layin'  up  there,  waitin' — 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul!  If  ye  ain't 
afraid  before  the  Lord  to  look  on  her,  come  up. 
It's  thankin*  God  I  am  she  can't  open  her  eyes  to 
see  ye." 

Hands  clutching  her  throat,  Miss  Schump  re- 
mained standing  there  on  the  sun-drenched  steps, 
gazing  after  the  figure  receding  into  the  musty 
gloom  of  the  hallway.  She  wanted  to  follow,  but 
instead  could  only  stand  there,  repeating  and 
repeating : 

"O  my  God!  O  my  God!  God!  God!  What 
have  I  done?  What  have  I  done?  Mamma — 
mamma — mamma!  O  my  God!  What?  What — " 

In  the  pyramidal  plot-structure  of  this  story  the 
line  of  descent  is  by  far  the  sheerer.  Short -story 
correspondence-schools  would  call  it  the  brief  down- 
ward action  leading  to  denouement. 

With  Stella  Schump  it  was  almost  a  straight 
declivity.  There  were  days  of  the  black  kind  of 
inertia  when  to  lift  the  head  from  its  sullen  inclina- 
tion to  rest  chin  on  chest  was  not  to  be  endured. 
There  was  actually  something  sick  in  the  eyes,  little 
cataracts  of  gray  cloud  seeming  to  float  across. 
She  would  sit  hunched  and  looking  out  of  them  so 
long  and  so  unseeingly  that  her  very  stare  seemed  to 
sleep. 

She  had  removed  the  stick  or  two  that  remained 
unsold  to  a  little  rear  room  high  up  in  a  large,  damp- 


HUMORESQUE 

smelling  lodging-house  on  West  Twentieth  Street, 
within  view  of  a  shipping-pier.  There  was  a  sign 
inserted  in  the  lower  front  window: 

ROOMS.     LIGHT  HOUSEKEEPING. 
INQUIRE   WITHIN. 

She  would  sit  in  that  room,  so  heavy  with  its 
odor  of  mildew,  her  window  closed  against  the  long, 
sweetly  warm  days,  hunched  dumbly  on  the  cot-edge 
and  staring  into  the  stripe  and  vine,  stripe  and  vine 
of  the  wall-paper  design,  or  lie  back  when  the  ache 
along  her  spine  began  to  set  in.  There  were  occa- 
sional ventures  to  a  corner  bake-shop  for  raisin  rolls 
and  to  the  delicatessen  next  door  for  a  quarter-pound 
of  Bologna  sausage  sliced  into  slivers  while  she 
waited.  She  would  sit  on  the  cot-edge  munching 
alternately  from  sliver  to  roll,  gulping  through  a 
throat  that  was  continually  tight  with  wanting  to 
cry,  yet  would  not  relax  for  that  relief. 

There  was  little  attempt  for  employment  except 
when  the  twenty  dollars  left  from  the  sale  of  effects 
and  funeral  expenses  began  to  dwindle.  She  would 
wake  up  nights,  sweaty  with  the  nightmare  that  her 
room  was  some  far-off  ward  for  incorrigibles  and  that 
one  of  the  strange,  veiny-nosed  inmates  was  filching 
her  small  leather  bag  from  beneath  her  pillow. 

When  her  little  roll  had  flattened  finally  down  to 
five  one-dollar  bills  she  took  to  daily  and  conscien- 
tiously buying  morning  papers  and  scanning  want-ad- 
vertisements as  she  stood  at  the  news-stand,  answer- 
ing first  those  that  were  within  walking-distance, 

116 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

She  would  make  a  five-block  devour  of  the  Criterion 
rather  than  pass  the  nearer  to  it. 

Once,  returning  after  a  fruitless  tour  of  the  smaller 
department  stores,  and  borne  along  by  the  six- 
o'clock  tide  of  Sixth  Avenue,  her  heart  leaped  up 
at  sight  of  Miss  Cora  Kinealy,  homeward  bound  on 
her  smart  tall  heels  that  clicked,  arm  in  arm  with 
Mabel  Runyan  of  the  notions.  Standing  there  with 
her  folded  newspaper  hugged  to  her  and  the  small 
hand-bag  dangling,  Stella  Schump  gazed  after. 

It  was  not  only  the  lack  of  references  or  even  of 
experience  that  conspired  against  her  every  effort 
at  employment.  It  was  the  lack  of  luster  to  the 
eye,  an  absolutely  new  tendency  to  tiptoe,  a  furtive 
lookout  over  her  shoulder,  a  halting  tongue,  that, 
uppn  the  slightest  questioning,  would  stutter  for 
words.  Where  there  were  application-blanks  to  be 
filled  in  she  would  pore  inkily  over  them  and,  after 
a  while,  slyly  crunch  hers  up  in  her  hand  and  steal 
out.  She  was  still  pinkly  and  prettily  clean,  and 
her  hair  with  its  shining  mat  of  plaits,  high  of  gloss, 
but  one  Saturday  half-holiday,  rather  than  break 
into  her  last  bill,  she  ate  a  three-cent  frankfurter- 
sausage  sandwich  from  off  a  not  quite  immaculate 
push-cart,  leaning  forward  as  she  bit  into  it  to  save 
herself  from  the  ooze  of  mustard.  Again  she  had 
the  sense  of  Cora  Kinealy  hurrying  along  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street  on  the  tall  heels  that  clicked. 
She  let  fall  the  bun  into  the  gutter  and  stood  there 
trembling. 

She  obtained,  one  later  afternoon,  at  the  instance 
of  a  window-card,  the  swabbing  of  the  tiled  floor 

117 


HUMORESQUE 

of  an  automobile  show-room.  She  left  before  her 
first  hour  was  completed,  crying,  her  finger-tips 
stinging,  two  nails  broken. 

Finally  came  that  chimera  of  an  hour  when  she 
laid  down  her  last  coin  for  the  raisin  rolls.  She  ate 
them  on  the  cot-edge.  And  then,  because  her 
weekly  dollar-and-twenty-five-cent  room  rent  fell 
due  that  evening,  she  wrapped  two  fresh  and  self- 
laundered  waists,  some  white  but  unlacy  under- 
wear, a  mound  of  window-dried  handkerchiefs,  a 
little  knitted  shoulder-shawl  so  long  worn  by  her 
mother,  her  tooth-brush  and  tube  of  paste,  and  all 
her  sundry  little  articles  no  less  indispensable,  into 
a  white-paper  package.  There  were  left  a  short 
woolen  petticoat,  too  cumbersome  to  include,  the 
small  wooden  rocker  and  lamp  with  the  china  shade 
which  she  had  rather  unexplainably  held  out  from 
the  dealer's  inventory.  She  closed  the  door  softly 
on  them  one  evening  and,  parcel  in  hand,  tiptoed 
down  the  stonily  cold  halls  and  out  into  a  street 
of  long,  thin,  high-stooped  houses.  Outside  in  the 
May  evening  it  was  as  black,  as  softly  deep,  as 
plushy  as  a  pansy.  She  walked  swiftly  into  it  as  if 
with  destination.  But  after  five  or  six  of  the  long 
cross-town  blocks  her  feet  began  to  lag.  She  stood  for 
a  protracted  moment  outside  a  drug-store  window, 
watching  the  mechanical  process  of  a  pasteboard 
man  stropping  his  razor;  loitered  to  read  the  violent 
three-sheet  outside  a  Third  Avenue  cinematograph. 
In  the  aura  of  white  light  a  figure  in  a  sweater  and 
cap  nudged  up  to  her. 

"Lonesome?" 

Ell 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

She  moved  on. 

In  Stuyvesant  Square  were  a  first  few  harbingers 
of  summer  scattered  here  and  there — couples  forcing 
the  gladsome  season  of  the  dim  park  bench ;  solitary 
brooders  who  can  sit  so  long,  so  droop-shouldered, 
and  so  deeply  in  silence.  On  one  of  these  benches, 
beside  a  slim,  scant-skirted,  light-spatted  silhouette, 
Stella  Schump  sat  finally  down.  It  was  ten  o'clock. 
There  was  a  sense  of  panic,  which  she  felt  mostly 
at  her  throat,  rising  in  her.  Then  she  would  force 
herself  into  a  state  of  quiet,  hand  on  bundle,  nictita- 
ting, as  it  were — eyes  opening,  eyes  closing.  The 
figure  beside  her  slid  over  a  bit,  spreading  the  tiny 
width  of  skirt  as  if  to  reserve  the  space  between 
them. 

"Workin'?" 

"Huh?" 

"Lord!"  she  said,  indicating  Second  Avenue  with 
a  nod.  "The  lane's  like  a  morgue  to-night." 

"Cold,  ain't  it?"  said  Stella  Schump,  shivering 
with  night  damp. 

A  figure  with  a  tilted  derby  came  sauntering 
toward  them. 

"Lay  off  my  territory.     I  seen  him  first." 

"Oh— sure— yes— all  right." 

The  place  in  between  them  was  filled  then,  the 
tilted  derby  well  forward  and  revealing  a  rear  bulge 
of  head.  There  was  an  indeterminate  moment  of 
silence  broken  by  the  slim-skirted  silhouette. 

"Where  you  goin'?" 

Straightening,  Miss  Schump  could  hear  more. 

"No  place.    Where  you  goin'?" 
9  119 


HUMORESQUE 

"I'm  cold." 

"Buy  you  a  drink?" 

In  the  shaft  of  arc-light  Miss  Schump  could  see 
the  little  face  framed  in  the  wan  curls  lift  and 
crinkle  the  nose  to  smile. 

"Come  on." 

She  watched  them  recede  down  the  narrow  asphalt 
of  the  parkway.  At  eleven  o'clock,  to  lessen  her 
stiffening  of  joints,  she  walked  twice  the  circum- 
ference of  the  fenced-in  inclosure,  finally  sitting  again, 
this  time  beneath  a  gaunt  oleander  that  was  heavy 
with  bud. 

"O  God!"  she  kept  repeating,  her  stress  growing. 
"O  God!  God!  God!" 

With  the  lateness,  footfalls  were  growing  more 
and  more  audible,  the  gong  of  a  street-car  sounding 
out  three  blocks  down. 

' '  O  my  God !"     And  then  in  rapid  succession,  clos- 
ing her  eyes  and  digging  her   finger-nails  into  her 
palms:   "Mamma!     Mamma!     Mamma!" 
,  She  wanted  and  wanted  to  cry,  but  her  throat 
would  not  let  her,  and  so  she  sat  and  sat. 

There  were  still  occasional  figures  moving  through 
the  little  lanes  and  a  couple  or  two  deep  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  benches.  After  another  while,  at  the  re- 
mote end  of  her  own  bench,  a  figure  sat  down, 
lighting  a  pipe.  She  watched  him  pu-pu-pup.  At 
half  after  eleven  she  slid  along  the  bench. 

"Where  you  goin'?" 

He  turned  to  look  down. 

"Eh?" 

"Where  you  goin'?" 

120 


A    PETAL   ON   THE    CURRENT 

"No  place." 

"I'm  cold." 

"Pu-pu-pup." 

"I  am." 

"Pu-pu-pup." 

She  leaned  around,  trying  to  bring  her  face  to  front 
his  and  to  lift  her  nose  to  a  little  wrinkly  smile. 

"Aw,  you!" 

"Go  home  and  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "A  nice- 
appearin'  girl  like  you  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"I— ain't." 

"Run  along." 

"Where?" 

"You're  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree." 

She  fell  silent.     A  chill  raced  through  her. 

' '  O  God !"  she  began,  under  her  breath.  ' '  O  God ! 
God!"  Then:  "Mamma!  Mamma!  Mamma!" 

"You  are  cold,"  he  said,  reaching  out  to  pinch 
her  jacket  sleeve.  "That's  a  warm  coat.  Where 
do  you  live?" 

"Lemme  alone,"  she  said,  staring  out  before  her 
as  if  she  were  seeing  the  stripe  and  vine,  stripe  and 
vine. 

"You  got  the  shivers,"  he  said.  "Better  go 
home." 

"Lemme  alone." 

"Ain't  there  no  way  you  girls  can  learn  to  behave 
yourselves  ?  Here ' ' — digging  down  into  his  pocket — 
"here." 

"No." 

"Where  you  live?" 

"I  dunno.    I  dunno." 

121 


HUMORESQUE 

"You  surely  know  where  you  live." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  one  of  the  rare  moments 
of  opening  wide  her  eyes. 

"I  tell  you  I  dunno." 

"What's  in  there?" 

"My — my  clothes." 

"Let's  see." 

She  plucked  at  the  knot,  drawing  back  for  him 
to  lean  to  see  the  top  layer  of  neatly  folded  waist. 

"Don't,"  she  said,  withdrawing  it  quickly  from 
his  touch. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "you  poor  little  kid!  What's 
got  you  into  this  mess?" 

At  that  in  his  voice,  such  a  quick,  a  thick,  a  hot 
layer  of  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  that  she  could  not 
relax  her  throat  for  words. 

"What  got  you  in?" 

"I— I— I  dunno." 

"Aw,  now,  yes,  you  do  know.  Try  to  think — 
take  your  time — what  got  you  in?" 

"I— I— can't—  " 

"Yes,  you  can.     Go  on;  I  ain't  lookin'  at  you." 

He  turned  off  to  an  angle. 

Her  first  sob  burst  from  her,  tearing  her  throat 
and  ending  in  a  tremolo  of  moans  in  her  throat. 

"Now,  now,"  he  said,  still  in  profile;  "that  won't 
do.  Not  for  a  sensible  little  girl  like  you.  Easy — 
easy — take  your  time — " 

"You  see,  mister — you  see,  it  was  my — my 
mamma — my  beautiful,  darling  mamma-^O  God ! — " 

"Yes,  yes;  it  was  your  mamma — and  then  what?" 

"It  was  my  mamma, my  beautiful, darling  mamma! 
122 


A   PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

What  '11  I  do,  mister?  I  can't  make  it  up  to  her. 
No  way — nohow.  She's  gone — she's  gone — " 

"Easy — easy — try  to  keep  easy." 

"I  used  to  kiss  her  hands  when  they  was  em- 
broiderin'.  I  used  to  grease  'em  for  her  all  night 
when  she  screamed  with  the  pain  of  'em.  I  used 
to  scream  at  night,  too,  when  I  was  doin'  my  time — 
her  there  waitin' — she  died  alone — there  waitin' — 
the  letter  they  gave  me  the  stamp  for — I — I  was 
crazy  with  scare  when  I  wrote  it — O  God ! — mamma — 
mamma — mamma !" 

1 '  'Sh-h-h !     'Sh-h-h !    Try  to  keep  easy." 

"It  was  this  way — O  God,  how  was  it? — it  was 
this  way — you  see,  me  and  my  mamma  and  some- 
times a  friend — Cora  Jones — no — no — no — Cora  Ki- 
nealy — we  used  to  sit  in  the  lamplight — no — no — 
first,  I  was  in  the  shoes — the  children's  shoes — they 
used  to  come  in,  little  kiddies  with  their  toes  all 
kicked  out  wantin'  new  shoes — cute  little  baby- 
shoes  that  I  loved  to  try  on  'em.  My  friend — Cora — 
my  friend—  O  God !— " 

"Now,  now,  like  a  good  girl — go  on." 

"My  friend  Cora — my  darling  little  mamma — I 
never  knew  nothing  about  anything  except  me  and 
my  mamma,  we — it  worried  her  that  I  didn't  have 
it  like — like  other  girls — I — you  see — you  see, 
mister?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see." 

Her  voice,  so  jerked  up  with  sobs,  quieted  down 
to  a  drone  finally,  to  a  low  drone  that  talked  on  and 
on  through  an  hour,  through  two.  There  were 
large,  shining  beads  of  tears  flowing  constantly 

123 


HUMORESQUE 

from  her  cheeks,  but  she  wiped  at  them  unceasingly 
with  her  handkerchief  and  talked  evenly  through  a 
new  ease  in  her  throat. 

"She  died,  mister,"  she  ended  up  finally,  turning 
her  salt-bitten  eyes  full  upon  him;  "she  died  of  that 
letter  written  when  I  was  so  full  of  a  scared  craziness 
from  bein'  in — in  that  place — that  terrible,  terrible 
place — but  she  didn't  die  believin'  me  bad.  I  never 
seen  her  alive  again  to  hear  it  from  her,  but  there 
in  her — her  little  coffin  I — I  seen  it  in  her  little  face, 
all  sunk,  she  didn't  believe  it — she  didn't  die  thinkin' 
me  bad.  Mister,  did  she?  Did  she?" 

He  did  not  answer,  sitting  there,  drooped  forward 
for  so  long  that  finally  she  put  out  her  hand  to  touch 
his. 

"Did  she?" 

He  did  not  turn  his  face,  but  reached  around,  in- 
closing her  wrist,  pressing  it,  gripping  it. 

"Did  she,  mister?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  finally,  "no,  Stella;  she  didn't 
die  thinkin'  you  bad." 

She  sighed  out,  eyes  closing,  and  her  quivering 
lips  falling  quiet. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  bad,  mister?" 

"No,  Stella!    No!    No!    No!    My  God,  no!" 

"I'm  cold." 

"Come." 

"Where?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  you  across  the  street  there  to 
the  Young  Women's  Shelter  Home  for  to-night. 
Just  across  there.  See  the  sign?  Don't  be  afraid, 
Stella.  Please  don't  be  afraid." 

124 


A    PETAL   ON   THE   CURRENT 

"I  ain't." 

He  retied  the  white-paper  package,  tucking  it  up 
under  one  arm. 

"Come,  Stella." 

She  rose,  swaying  for  the  merest  second.  His  arm 
shot  out. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  steadying  herself,  smil- 
ingly, shamefacedly,  but  relaxing  gratefully  enough 
to  the  flung  support. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Stella/'  he  said.  "I'm  here. 
I'm  here." 

His  forearm  where  the  cuff  had  ridden  up  bore  a 
scar,  as  if  molten  lead  had  run  a  fiery,  a  dagger- 
shaped,  an  excoriating  course. 


WHITE    GOODS 

ON  a  slope  a  white  sprinkling  of  wood  anemones 
lay  spread  like  a  patch  of  linen  bleaching  in 
the  sun.  From  a  valley  a  lark  cut  a  swift  diagonal 
upward  with  a  coloratura  burst  of  song.  A  stream 
slipped  its  ice  and  took  up  its  murmur  where  it  had 
left  off.  A  truant  squelched  his  toes  in  the  warm 
mud  and  let  it  ooze  luxuriantly  over  and  between 
them. 

A  mole  stirred  in  its  hole,  and  because  spring  will 
find  a  way,  even  down  in  the  bargain  basement  of 
the  Titanic  Store,  which  is  far  below  the  level  of 
the  mole,  Sadie  Barnet,  who  had  never  seen  a  wood 
anemone  and  never  sniffed  of  thaw  or  the  wet  wild 
smell  of  violets,  felt  the  blood  rise  in  her  veins  like 
sap,  and  across  the  aisle  behind  the  white-goods 
counter  Max  Meltzer  writhed  in  his  woolens,  and 
Sadie  Barnet,  presiding  over  a  bin  of  specially  priced 
mill-ends  out  mid-aisle  between  the  white  goods  and 
the  muslin  underwear,  leaned  toward  him,  and  her 
smile  was  as  vivid  as  her  lips. 

"Say,  Max,  guess  why  I  think  you're  like  a  rubber 
band." 

Classic  Delphi  was  never  more  ready  with  am- 
biguous retort. 

126 


WHITE    GOODS 

Behind  a  stack  of  Joy-of-the-Loom  bed-sheets, 
Max  Meltzer  groped  for  oracular  divination,  and  his 
heart-beats  fluttered  in  his  voice. 

"Like  a  rubber  band?" 

"Yeh." 

"Give  up." 

"Aw,  give  a  guess." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  Miss  Sadie,  unless — unless 
it's  because  I'm  stuck  on  you." 

Do  not,  ascetic  reader,  gag  at  the  unsocratic 
plane.  True,  Max  Meltzer  had  neither  the  grain 
nor  the  leisure  of  a  sophist,  a  capacity  for  tenses  or 
an  appreciation  of  Kant.  He  had  never  built  a 
bridge,  led  a  Bible  class,  or  attempted  the  first  inch 
of  the  five-foot  bookshelf.  But  on  a  two-figure  sal- 
ary he  subscribed  an  annual  donation  to  a  skin-and- 
cancer  hospital,  wore  non-reversible  collars,  and 
maintained  a  smile  that  turned  upward  like  the 
corners  of  a  cycle  moon.  Remember,  then,  as- 
cetic reader,  that  a  rich  man  once  kicked  a  leper ; 
Kant's  own  heart,  that  it  might  turn  the  world's 
heart  outward,  burst  of  pain;  and  in  the  granite 
canon  of  Wall  Street,  one  smile  in  every  three- 
score and  ten  turns  upward. 

Sadie  Barnet  met  Max  Meltzer's  cycle-moon 
smile  with  the  blazing  eyes  of  scorn,  and  her  lips, 
quivering  to  a  smile,  met  in  a  straight  line  that 
almost  ironed  out  the  curves. 

"  'Cause  you're  stuck  on  me!  That's  a  swell 
guess.  Gee!  you're  as  funny  as  a  sob,  you  are." 

The  words  scuttered  from  her  lips  like  sharp 
hailstones  and  she  glanced  at  him  sidewise  over  a 

127 


HUMORESQUE 

hump  of  uplifted  shoulder  and  down  the  length  of 
one  akimbo  arm. 

"  'Cause  you're  stuck  on  me!    Huh!" 

Max  Meltzer  leaned  across  a  counter  display  of 
fringed  breakfast  napkins. 

"Ain't  that  a  good  reason,  Miss  Sadie?  It's  a 
true  one." 

"You're  one  swell  little  guesser,  you  are  not. 
You  couldn't  get  inside  a  riddle  with  a  can-opener. 
'Cause  you're  stuck  on  me !  Gee!" 

"Well,  I  am." 

"I  didn't  ask  you  why  you  was  like  a  bottle  of 
glue.  I  asked  you  why  you  was  like  a  rubber  band." 

"Aw,  I  give  up,  Miss  Sadie." 

"  'Cause  you're  so  stretchy,  see?  'Cause  you're 
so  stretchy  you'll  yawn  your  arm  off  if  you  don't 
watch  it." 

Max  Meltzer  collapsed  in  an  attitude  of  mock 
prostration  against  a  stock-shelf. 

"Gee!  that  must  have  been  cracked  before  the 
first  nut." 

"Smarty!" 

Across  the  specially  priced  mill-ends  she  flashed 
the  full  line  of  her  teeth,  and  with  an  intensity  his 
features  ill  concealed  he  noted  how  sweet  her  throat 
as  it  arched. 

"It's  the  spring  fever  gets  inside  of  me  and  makes 
me  so  stretchy,  Miss  Sadie.  It's  a  good  thing 
trade  is  slow  down  here  in  the  basement  to-day, 
because  it's  the  same  with  me  every  year;  the  Satur- 
day before  spring-opening  week  I  just  get  to  feeling 
Eke  all  outdoors." 

128 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Wait  till  you  see  me  with  a  new  red -satin  bow 
stuck  on  my  last  summer's  shape.  Dee  Dee's  got 
to  lend  me  the  price  for  two  yards  of  three-inch 
red -satin  ribbon  for  my  spring  opening." 

His  breath  rose  in  his  throat. 

"I  bet  you  look  swell  in  red,  Miss  Sadie.  But  a 
girl  like  you  looks  swell  in  anything." 

"Red's  my  color.  Dee  Dee  says  my  mamma  was 
a  gay  one,  too,  when  it  came  to  color.  Had  to  have 
a  red  bow  pinned  somewheres  around  all  the  months 
she  was  in  bed  and — and  up  to  the  very  night  she 
died.  Gimme  red  every  time.  Dee  Dee's  the  one 
that's  always  kicking  against  red;  she  says  I  got 
too  flashy  taste." 

"Say,  if  she  keeps  bossing  and  bossing  at  you, 
what  do  you  keep  on  living  with  her  for?" 

"Wouldn't  you  live  with  your  own  mother's 
sister  if  she  raised  you  from  a  kid?  What  am  I 
going  to  do,  put  her  in  cold  storage,  now  that  her 
eyes  are  going  back  on  her?  Up  in  the  ribbons 
she  can't  hardly  keep  her  colors  graduated  no 
more,  that's  how  blind  she's  getting.  Only  yes- 
terday a  dame  brought  back  some  lavender  ribbon 
and  wiped  up  the  whole  department  with  Dee  Dee 
for  putting  it  over  on  her  as  blue.  What  am  I  going 
to  do?" 

"Honest,  Miss  Sadie,  I  didn't  know  that  she  was 
your  aunt  and  that  her  eyes  was  bad.  I've  seen  you 
two  together  a  lot  and  noticed  her  thick  lenses,  but 
I  just  didn't  think." 

"Well,  now  I'm  telling  you." 

"I  just  thought  she  was  some  old  girl  up  in  the 
129 


HUMORESQUE 

ribbons  you  was  living  with  for  company.  Honest, 
I  didn't  know  she  had  bad  eyes.  Gee!" 

"No,  they  ain't  bad.  Only  she's  so  blind  she 
reads  her  paper  upside  down  and  gets  sore  if  you  tell 
her  about  it." 

"And  me  thinking  she  was  nothing  but  a  near- 
sighted old  grouch  with  a  name  like  a  sparrow." 

Miss  Barnet  laughed  with  an  upward  trill. 

"Dee  Dee  ain't  her  real  name.  When  I  was  a 
kid  and  she  took  me  to  raise,  that's  the  way  I  used  to 
pronounce  Aunt  Edith.  Gee!  you  don't  think  Dee 
Dee  was  the  name  they  sprinkled  on  her  when  they 
christened  her,  did  you?" 

Max  Meltzer  leaned  to  the  breath  of  her  laughter 
as  if  he  would  fill  his  lungs  with  it. 

"Gee!  but  you're  a  cute  little  lady  when  you 
laugh  like  that." 

"Say,  and  ain't  you  the  freshie!  Just  because 
you're  going  to  be  promoted  to  buyer  for  your  de- 
partment won't  get  your  picture  in  the  Sunday 
supplement.  No  white-goods  buyer  I  know  of  ever 
had  to  build  white  marble  libraries  or  present  a 
bread-line  to  the  city  to  get  rid  of  his  pin-money." 

"I  bet  you  was  a  cute  little  black-eyed,  red- 
cheeked  little  youngster,  alrighty." 

"I  wasn't  so  worse.  Like  I  tell  Dee  Dee,  the 
way  she's  held  me  down  and  indoors  evenings, 
it's  a  wonder  a  kid  like  me  grew  up  with  any  pep 
at  all." 

"Poor  little  lady!" 

"It's  like  Dee  Dee  says,  though.  I  never  was  cut 
out  for  life  behind  the  counter.  Gee!  I'd  soak  my 

130 


WHITE    GOODS 

pillow  in  gasolene  every  night  in  the  week  if  it 
would  make  me  dream  I'm  automobiling. " 

"Poor  little  lady!" 

"Say,  ain't  it  hot?  With  the  Opening  on  Monday, 
they  better  get  the  fans  working.  Last  year  three 
girls  keeled.  Honest,  sometimes  I  think  I'd  rather 
spend  the  summer  under  the  daisies  out  on  the  hill 
than  down  here  in  this  basement." 

"Don't  I  wish  I  had  an  auto  to  take  you  spinning 
in  to-night." 

"You  ought  to  see  the  flier  a  friend  of  mine  has 
got.  A  Mercury  Six  with  a  limousine  top  like  a 
grand-opera  box." 

' '  Your — your — friend  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  He's  that  slick-looking,  little  fat  fellow 
that's  a  cousin  to  Mamie  Grant  up  in  the  ready-to- 
wears.  He  was  down  here  talking  to  me  the  other 
day." 

"I  seen  him." 

"Gee!  you  ought  to  feel  yourself  in  his  Mercury 
Six.  'Lemme  die,'  I  says  to  him  the  last  time  I 
was  in  it.  'Just  lemme  close  my  eyes  right  in  here 
and  die  happy,'  I  says,  cuddled  up  in  the  red -leather 
seat  with  a  cornucopia  of  daffodils  tickling  my  nose 
and  a  street-car  full  of  strap-hangers  riding  along- 
side of  us." 

"I — I  guess  if  you  got  swell  friends  like  that,  a 
boat  excursion  down  the  river  'ain't  got  much  of  a 
sound  for  you." 

"He  says  he's  got  a  launch  in  summer — ' 

"Honest,  Miss  Sadie,  I — I  just  been  trying  for 
the  better  part  of  two  weeks  to  ask  permission  if  I 

131 


HUMORESQUE 

could  come  and  call  on  you  some  evening,  Miss 
Sadie,  but—" 

"Whoops!  ain't  he  the  daredevil!" 

"The  first  boat  of  the  season,  Miss  Sadie,  a  swell 
new  one  they  call  the  White  Gull,  goes  down  to  Coney 
to-night,  and,  it  being  real  springtime,  and  you 
feeling  kind  of  full  of  it,  I  thought  maybe,  it  being 
the  first  boat  of  the  season,  maybe  you  would  take  a 
river  ride  this  grand  April  night,  Miss  Sadie." 

Her  glance  slanted  toward  him,  full  of  quirks. 

"My  aunt  Dee  Dee,  Mr.  Meltzer,  she's  right  strict 
with  me.  She  don't  think  I  ought  to  keep  company 
with  any  boys  that  don't  come  to  see  me  first  at  my 
house." 

"I  know  it,  Miss  Sadie;  that's  the  right  way  to  do 
it,  but  I  think  I  can  get  around  her  all  right.  Wasn't 
she  down  here  in  the  basement  the  day  I  first  heard 
about  my  promotion,  and  didn't  she  give  me  the  glad 
hand  and  seem  right  friendly  to  me?  I  can  get 
around  her  all  right,  Miss  Sadie.  I  can  always  tell 
if  a  person  likes  me  or  not." 

"Anyways,  if  her  eyes  ain't  too  bad,  Mr.  Meltzer, 
I  got  a  date  with  my  friend  if  his  car  is  out  of  the 
shop  from  having  the  limousine  top  taken  off.  We 
— we're  going  for  a  little  spin." 

A  quick  red  belied  her  insouciance  and  she  made  a 
little  foray  into  the  bin  of  mill-ends. 

"Gee!  if  I've  made  three  sales  this  livelong  day  I 
don't  know  nothing  about  two  of  them." 

Max  Meltzer  met  her  dancing  gaze,  pinioning  it 
with  his  own  quiet  eyes. 

"You're  right  to  pick  out  the  lucky  fellows  who 
132 


WHITE    GOODS 

can  buy  a  good  time.  A  little  girl  like  you  ought 
to  have  every  enjoyment  there  is.  If  I  could  give 
it  to  you,  do  you  think  I  would  let  the  other  fellows 
beat  me  to  it?  The  best  ain't  none  too  good  for  a 
little  lady  like  you." 

"Aw,  Mr.  Meltzer !"  Her  bosom  filled  and  waned. 
"Aw,  Mr.  Meltzer!" 

"I  mean  it." 

An  electric  bell  grilled  through  his  words.  Miss 
Barnet  sprang  reflexly  from  the  harness  of  an 
eight-hour  day. 

"Aw,  looka,  and  I  wanted  to  sneak  up  before 
closing  and  get  Dee  Dee  to  snip  me  two  yards  of 
red  satin,  and  she  won't  cut  an  inch  after  the  bell. 
Ain't  that  luck  for  you?  Ain't  that  luck?" 

Her  lips  drew  to  a  pout. 

"Lemme  get  it  for  you,  Miss  Sadie.  I  know  a 
girl  up  in  the  ribbons — 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Meltzer.  I — I  got  to  charge  it  to 
Dee  Dee,  and,  anyways,  she  gets  mad  like  anything 
if  I  keep  her  waiting.  I  gotta  go.  'Night,  Mr. 
Meltzer!  'Night!" 

She  was  off  through  the  maze  of  the  emptying 
store,  in  the  very  act  of  pinning  on  her  little  hat 
with  its  jaunty  imitation  fur  pompon,  and  he 
breathed  in  as  she  passed,  as  if  of  the  perfume  of 
her  personality. 

At  the  ribbon  counter  on  the  main  floor  the  last 
of  a  streamlet  of  outgoing  women  detached  herself 
from  the  file  as  Miss  Barnet  ascended  the  stair- 
case. 

"Hurry  up,  Sadie." 


HUMORESQUE 

' '  Dee  Dee !  How'd  you  girls  up  here  get  on  your 
duds  so  soon?  I  thought  maybe  if  I'd  hurry  up- 
stairs you — you'd  find  time  to  cut  me  a  two-yard 
piece  of  three-inch  red  satin  for  my  hat,  Dee  Dee — 
to-morrow  being  Sunday.  Two  yards,  Dee  Dee, 
and  that  '11  make  two-sixty-nine  I  owe  you.  Aw, 
Dee  Dee,  it  won't  take  a  minute,  to-morrow  Sunday 
and  all!  Aw,  Dee  Dee!" 

Miss  Barnet  slid  ingratiating  fingers  into  the 
curve  of  the  older  woman's  arm;  her  voice  was 
smooth  as  salve. 

"Aw,  Dee  Dee,  who  ever  heard  of  wearing  fur  on 
a  hat  in  April?  I  gotta  stick  a  red  bow  on  my  last 
summer's  sailor,  Dee  Dee." 

Miss  Edith  Worte  stiffened  so  that  the  muscles 
sprang  out  in  the  crook  of  her  arm  and  the  cords  in 
her  long,  yellowing  neck.  Years  had  dried  on  her 
face,  leaving  ravages,  and  through  her  high-power 
spectacles  her  pale  eyes  might  have  been  staring 
through  film  and  straining  to  see. 

"Please,  Dee  Dee!" 

Miss  Barnet  held  backward,  a  little  singsong 
note  of  appeal  running  through  her  voice. 

Miss  Worte  jerked  forward  toward  the  open  door. 
April  dusk,  the  color  of  cold  dish-water,  showed 
through  it.  Dusk  in  the  city  comes  sadly,  crowding 
into  narrow  streets  and  riddled  with  an  immediate 
quick-shot  of  electric  bulbs. 

'"Ain't  you  got  no  sense  a-tall?  'Ain't  you  got 
no  sense  in  that  curly  head  of  yourn  but  ruination 
notions?" 

"Aw,  Dee  Dee!" 


WHITE   GOODS 

They  were  in  the  flood  tide  which  bursts  through 
the  dam  at  six  o'clock  like  a  human  torrent  flooding 
the  streets,  then  spreading,  thinning,  and  finally 
seeping  into  homes,  hall  bedrooms,  and  Harlem 
flats. 

Miss  Edith  Worte  turned  her  sparse  face  toward 
the  down-town  tide  and  against  a  light  wind  that 
tasted  of  rain  and  flapped  her  skirts  around  her 
thin  legs. 

"Watch  out,  Dee  Dee!  Step  down;  there's  a 
curb." 

"I  don't  need  you.  It's  lots  you  care  if  I  go  blind 
on  the  spot." 

"Dee  Dee!" 

"God!  if  I  didn't  have  nothing  to  worry  me  but 
red  ribbons !  I  told  the  doctor  to-day,  while  he  was 
putting  the  drops  in  my  eyes,  that  if  he'd  let  me  go 
blind  I— I—" 

"Now,  now,  Dee  Dee!  Ain't  you  seeing  better 
these  last  few  days?" 

' '  If  you  had  heard  what  the  doctor  told  me  to-day 
when  he  put  the  drops  in  my  eyes  you'd  have  some- 
thing to  think  about  besides  red  ribbon,  alrighty." 

"I  forgot,  Dee  Dee,  to-day  was  your  eye-doctor 
day.  He's  always  scarin'  you  up.  Just  don't  pay 
no  attention.  I  forgot  it  was  your  day." 

"Sure  you  forgot.  But  you  won't  forget  if  I 
wake  up  alone  in  the  dark  some  day." 

"Dee  Dee!" 

"You  won't  forget  then.  You  won't  forget  to 
nag  me  even  then  for  duds  to  go  automobiling  with 
fly  men  that  can't  bring  you  no  good." 

10  135 


HUMORESQUE 

"Dee  Dee,  I  'ain't  been  but  one  night  this  week. 
I  been  saving  up  all  my  nights  for — for  to-night." 

"To-night.  Say,  I  can't  keep  you  from  going  to 
the  devil  on  skates  if— 

"It's  only  the  second  time  this  week,  Dee  Dee, 
and  I — I  promised.  He'll  have  ihe  limousine  top 
off  to-night — and  feel,  it  is  just  like  summer.  A 
girl's  gotta  have  a  little  something  once  in  a 
while." 

"What  do  I  gotta  have?  What  do  I  gotta  have 
but  slave  and  work?" 

"It's- different  with  you,  Dee  Dee.  You're  older 
even  than  my  mamma  was,  and  didn't  you  say  when 
you  and  her  was  girls  together  there  wasn't  a  live- 
lier two  sisters?  Now  didn't  you,  Dee  Dee?" 

"In  a  respectable  way,  yes.  But  there  wasn't 
the  oily-mouthed,  bald-headed  divorced  man  alive, 
with  little  rat  eyes  and  ugly  lips,  who  could  have 
took  me  or  your  mamma  out  auto-riding  before  or 
after  dark.  We  was  working-girls,  too,  but  there 
wasn't  a  man  didn't  take  off  his  hat  to  us,  even  if 
he  was  bald-headed  and  it  was  twenty  below  zero." 

"Aw!" 

"Yes,  'aw'!  You  keep  running  around  with  the 
kind  of  men  that  don't  look  at  a  girl  unless  she's 
served  up  with  rum-sauce  and  see  where  it  lands 
you.  Just  keep  running  if  you  want  to,  but  my 
money  don't  buy  you  no  red  ribbons  to  help  to  drive 
you  to  the  devil!" 

"The  way  you  keep  fussing  at  me,  when  I  don't 
even  go  to  dances  like  the  other  girls!  I — some- 
times I  just  wish  I  was  dead.  The  way  I  got  to 

136 


WHITE    GOODS 

watch  the  clock  like  it  was  a  taximeter  the  whole  time 
I'm  out  anywheres.  It's  the  limit.  Even  Max 
Meltzer  gimme  the  laugh  to-day." 

"You'd  never  hear  me  say  watch  the  clock  if 
you'd  keep  company  with  a  boy  like  Max  Meltzer. 
A  straight,  clean  boy  with  honest  intentions  by  a 
girl  lookin'  right  out  of  his  face.  You  let  a  boy  like 
Max  Meltzer  begin  to  keep  steady  with  you  and  see 
what  I  say.  You  don't  see  no  yellow  streak  in  his 
face;  he's  as  white  as  the  goods  he  sells." 

"I  know.  I  know.  You  think  now  because  he's 
going  to  be  made  buyer  for  the  white  goods  in 
September  he's  the  whole  show.  Gee!  nowadays 
that  ain't  so  muchy  much  for  a  fellow  to  be." 

"No,  I  think  the  kind  of  fellows  that  fresh  Mamie 
Grant  gets  you  acquainted  with  are  muchy  much. 
I'm  strong  for  the  old  rat-eyed  sports  like  Jerry 
Beck,  that  'ain't  got  a  honest  thought  in  his  head. 
I  bet  he  gives  you  the  creeps,  too,  only  you're  the 
kind  of  a  girl,  God  help  you,  that's  so  crazy  for 
luxury  you  could  forget  the  devil  had  horns  if  he 
hid  'em  under  a  automobile  cap." 

"Sure  I  am.  I  'ain't  seen  nothing  but  slaving  and 
drudging  and  pinching  all  my  life,  while  other  girls 
are  strutting  the  Avenue  in  their  furs  and  sleeping 
mornings  as  long  as  they  want  under  eider-down 
quilts.  Sure,  when  a  man  like  Jerry  Beck  comes 
along  with  a  carriage-check  instead  of  a  Subway- 
ticket  I  can  thaw  up  to  him  like  a  water-ice,  and  I 
ain't  ashamed  of  it,  neither." 

They  turned  into  a  narrow  aisle  of  street  lined 
with  unbroken  rows  of  steep,  narrow-faced  houses. 


HUMORESQUE 

Miss  Worte  withdrew  her  arm  sharply  and  plunged 
ahead,  her  lips  wry  and  on  the  verge  of  trembling. 

"When  a  girl  gets  twenty,  like  you,  it  ain't  none 
of  my  put-in  no  more.  Only  I  hope  to  God  your 
mother  up  there  is  witness  that  if  ever  a  woman 
slaved  to  keep  a  girl  straight  and  done  her  duty  by 
her  it  was  me.  That  man  'ain't  got  no  good  inten- 
tions by — •" 

"Oh,  ain't  you — ain't  you  a  mean-thinking  thing, 
ain't  you?  What  kind  of  a  girl  do  you  think  I 
am?  If  he  didn't  have  the  right  intentions  by  me  do 
you  think — " 

"Oh,  I  guess  he'll  marry  you  if  he  can't  get  you 
no  other  way.  Them  kind  always  do  if  they  can't 
help  themselves.  A  divorced  old  guy  like  him,  with 
a  couple  of  kids  and  his  mean  little  eyes,  knows 
he's  got  to  pay  up  if  he  wants  a  young  girl  like 
you.  Oh,  I—  Ouch-—oh— oh!" 

1 '  Dee  Dee,  take  my  arm.  That  was  only  an  ash- 
can  you  bumped  into.  It's  the  drops  he  puts  in 
your  eyes  makes  'em  so  bad  to-night,  I  guess.  Go 
on,  take  my  arm,  Dee  Dee.  Here  we  are  home. 
Lemme  lead  you  up-stairs.  It's  nothing  but  the 
drops,  Dee  Dee." 

They  turned  in  and  up  and  through  a  foggy 
length  of  long  hallway.  Spring  had  not  entered  here. 
At  the  top  of  a  second  flight  of  stairs  a  slavey  sat 
back  on  her  heels  and  twisted  a  dribble  of  gray  water 
from  her  cloth  into  her  bucket.  At  the  last  and 
third  landing  an  empty  coal-scuttle  stood  just  out- 
side a  door  as  if  nosing  for  entrance. 

"Watch  out,  Dee  Dee,  the  scuttle.  Lemme  go  in 
138 


WHITE    GOODS 

first.     Gee!  it's  cold  indoors  and  warm  out,  ain't  it? 
Wait  till  I  light  up.     There!" 

"Lemme  alone.     I  can  see." 

An  immemorial  federation  of  landladies  has  com- 
bined against  Hestia  to  preserve  the  musty  tradi- 
tions of  the  furnished  room.  Love  in  a  cottage  is 
fostered  by  subdivision  promoters  and  practised 
by  commuters  on  a  five-hundred-dollars-down, 
monthly-payment  basis.  Marble  halls  have  been 
celebrated  in  song,  but  the  furnished  room  we  have 
with  us  always  at  three  cents  per  agate  line. 

You  with  your  feet  on  your  library  fender, 
stupefied  with  contentment  and  your  soles  scorch- 
ing, your  heart  is  not  black;  it  is  only  fat.  How 
can  it  know  the  lean  formality  of  the  furnished 
room?  Your  little  stenographer,  who  must  wear  a 
smile  and  fluted  collars  on  eight  dollars  a  week, 
knows  it;  the  book  agent  at  your  door,  who  earns 
eighteen  cents  on  each  Life  of  Lincoln,  knows  it. 
Chambermaids  know  it  when  they  knock  thrice  and 
only  the  faint  and  nauseous  fumes  of  escaping  gas 
answer  them  through  the  plugged  keyhole.  Cor- 
oners know  it. 

Sadie  Barnet  and  Edith  Worte  knew  it,  too,  and 
put  out  a  hand  here  and  there  to  allay  it.  A  com- 
forting spread  of  gay  chintz  covered  the  sag  in 
their  white  iron  bed;  a  photograph  or  two  stuck 
upright  between  the  dresser  mirror  and  its  frame, 
and  tacked  full  flare  against  the  wall  was  a 
Japanese  fan,  autographed  many  times  over  with 
the  gay  personnel  of  the  Titanic  Store's  annual 
picnic. 

i39 


HUMORESQUE 

"Gee!  Dee  Dee,  six- twenty  already!  I  got  to 
hurry.  Unhook  me  while  I  sew  in  this  ruch- 
ing." 

"Going  for  supper?" 

"Yeh.  He  invited  me.  This  is  cottage-pudding 
night;  tell  old  lady  Finch  when  I  ain't  home  for 
supper  you  got  two  desserts  coming  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  no  supper." 

"Aw,  now,  Dee  Dee!" 

Miss  Worte  dropped  her  dark  cape  from  her 
shoulders,  hung  it  with  her  hat  on  a  door  peg,  and 
sat  heavily  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"God!  my  feet!" 

"Soak  'em." 

Miss  Barnet  peeled  off  her  shirt-waist.  Her 
bosom,  strong  and  flat  as  a  boy's,  rose  white  from 
her  cheaply  dainty  under-bodice ;  at  her  shoulders 
the  flesh  began  to  deepen,  and  her  arms  were  round 
and  full  of  curves. 

"Here,  Dee  Dee,  I'm  so  nervous  when  I  hurry. 
You  sew  in  this  ruche;  you  got  time  before  the 
supper -bell.  See,  right  along  the  edge  like  that." 

Miss  Worte  aimed  for  the  eye  of  the  needle, 
moistening  the  end  of  the  thread  with  her  tongue 
and  her  fluttering  fingers  close  to  her  eyes. 

"God!  I — I  just  'ain't  got  the  eyes  no  more.  I 
can't  see,  Sadie;  I  can't  find  the  needle." 

Sadie  Barnet  paused  in  the  act  of  brushing  out  the 
cloud  of  her  dark  hair,  and  with  a  strong  young 
gesture  ran  the  thread  through  the  needle,  knotting 
its  end  with  a  quirk  of  thumb  and  forefinger. 

"It's  the  drops,  Dee  Dee,  and  this  gaslight,  all 

140 


WHITE    GOODS 

blurry  from  the  curling-iron  in  the  fiame,  makes  you 
see  bad." 

Miss  Worte  nodded  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if 
she  would  press  back  the  tears  and  let  them  drip 
inward. 

"Yeh,  I  know.     I  know." 

"Sure!  Here,  lemme  do  it,  Dee  Dee.  I  won't 
stay  out  late,  dearie,  if  your  eyes  are  bad.  We're 
only  going  out  for  a  little  spin." 

Miss  Worte  lay  back  on  the  chintz  bedspread  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

"I  should  worry  if  you  come  home  or  if  you 
don't — all  the  comfort  you  are  to  me." 

"You  say  that  to  me  many  more  times  and  you 
watch  and  see  what  I  do;  you  watch  and  see." 

"The  sooner  the  better." 

In  the  act  of  fluting  the  soft  ruche  about  her 
neck,  so  that  her  fresh  little  face  rose  like  a  bud 
from  its  calyx,  Miss  Barnet  turned  to  the  full 
length  of  back  which  faced  her  from  the  bed. 

"That's  just  the  way  I  feel  about  it — the  sooner 
the  better." 

"Then  we  think  alike." 

"You  'ain't  been  such  a  holy  saint  to  me  that  I 
got  to  pay  up  to  you  for  it  all  my  life." 

"That's  the  thanks  I  get." 

"You  only  raised  me  because  you  had  to.  I  been 
working  for  my  own  living  ever  since  I  was  so 
little  I  had  to  lie  to  the  inspectors  about  my  age." 

"Except  what  you  begged  out  of  my  wages." 

"I  been  as  much  to  you  as  you  been  to  me  and — 
and  I  don't  have  to  stand  this  no  longer.  Sure  I 

141 


HUMORESQUE 

can  get  out  and — and  the  sooner  the  better.  I'm 
sick  of  getting  down  on  my  knees  to  you  every  time 
I  wanna  squeeze  a  little  good  time  out  of  life.  I'm 
tired  paying  up  for  the  few  dollars  you  gimme  out 
of  your  envelop.  If  I  had  any  sense  I — I  wouldn't 
never  take  it  from  you,  nohow,  the  way  you  throw 
it  up  to  me  all  the  time.  The  sooner  the  better  is 
what  I  say,  too;  the  sooner  the  better." 

"That's  the  thanks  I  get;  that's  the—" 

"Aw,  I  know  all  that  line  of  talk  by  heart,  so 
you  don't  need  to  ram  it  down  me.  You  gotta  quit 
insinuating  about  my  ways  to  me.  I'm  as  straight 
as  you  are  and — " 

"You — you — take  off  that  ivory-hand  breast-pin; 
that  ain't  yours." 

"Sure  I'll  take  it  off,  and  this  ruche  you  gimme 
the  money  to  buy,  and  this  red  bracelet  you  gimme, 
and — and  every  old  thing  you  ever  gimme.  Sure 
I'll  take  'em  all  off.  I  wish  I  could  take  off  these 
gray-top  shoes  you  pstid  a  dollar  toward,  and  I 
would,  too,  if  I  didn't  have  to  go  barefoot.  It's  the 
last  time  I  borrow  from — " 

"Aw,  you  commenced  that  line  of  talk  when  you 
was  ten." 

"I  mean  it." 

"Well,  if  you  do,  take  off  them  gloves  that  I 
bought  for  myself  and  you  begged  right  off  my 
hands.  Just  take  'em  off  and  go  barehanded  with 
your  little-headed  friend;  maybe  he  can  buy— 

"You—  Oh,  I— I  wish  I  was  dead!  I— I'll  go 
barehanded  to  a  snowball  feast  rather  than  wear 
your  duds.  There's  your  old  gloves — there!" 

142 


WHITE    GOODS 

Tears  were  streaming  and  leaving  their  ravages 
on  the  smooth  surface  of  her  cheeks. 

"I  just  wish  I — I  was  dead." 

"Aw,  no,  you  don't!  There's  him  now,  with  a 
horn  on  his  auto  that  makes  a  noise  like  the  devil 
yelling!  There's  your  little  rat-eyed,  low-lived  fel- 
low, now.  You  don't  wish  you  was  dead  now,  do 
you?  Go  to  him  and  his  two  divorces  and  his  little 
round  head.  That's  where  you  belong;  that's  where 
girls  on  the  road  to  the  devil  belong — with  them 
kind.  There  he  is  now,  waiting  to  ride  you  to  the 
devil.  He  don't  need  to  honk-honk  so  loud;  he 
knows  you're  ready  and  waiting  for  him." 

Miss  Barnet  fastened  on  her  little  hat  with 
fingers  that  fumbled. 

' '  Gimme — the  key." 

"Aw,  no,  you  don't.  When  you  come  home  to- 
night you  knock;  no  more  tiptoe,  night-key  busi- 
ness like  last  time.  I  knew  you  was  lying  to  me 
about  the  clock." 

"You  gimme  that  key.  I  don't  want  you  to  have 
to  get  up,  with  all  your  kicking,  to  open  the  door 
for  me.  You  gimme  the  key." 

"If  you  wanna  get  in  this  room  when  you  come 
home  to-night,  you  knock  like  any  self-respecting 
girl  ain't  afraid  to  do." 

"You — oh — you!"  With  a  shivering  intake  of 
breath  Miss  Barnet  flung  wide  the  door,  slamming 
it  after  her  until  the  windows  and  the  blue -glass 
vase  on  the  mantelpiece  and  Miss  Worte,  stretched 
full  length  on  the  bed,  shivered. 

Two  flights  down  she  flung  open  the  front  door, 


HUMORESQUE 

There  came  from  the  curb  the  bleat  of  a  siren,  wild 
for  speed. 

Stars  had  come  out,  a  fine  powdering  of  them, 
and  the  moist  evening  atmosphere  was  sweet,  even 
heavy.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  embrasure 
of  the  door,  scenting. 

"Do  I  need  my  heavy  coat,  Jerry?" 

The  dim  figure  in  the  tonneau,  with  his  arms 
flung  out  their  length  across  the  back  of  the  seat, 
moved  from  the  center  to  the  side. 

"No,  you  don't.  Hurry  up!  I'll  keep  you  warm 
if  you  need  a  coat.  Climb  in  here  right  next  to  me, 
Peachy.  Gimme  that  robe  from  the  front  there, 
George. 

"Now  didn't  I  say  I  was  going  to  keep  you 
warm?  Quit  your  squirming,  Touchy.  I  won't 
bite.  Ready,  George.  Up  to  the  Palisade  Inn,  and 
let  out  some  miles  there." 

' '  Gee !  Jerry,  you  got  the  limousine  top  off.  Ain't 
this  swell  for  summer?" 

Mr.  Jerome  Beck  settled  back  in  the  roomy  em- 
brasure of  the  seat  and  exhaled  loudly,  his  shoulder 
and  shoe  touching  hers. 

She  settled  herself  out  of  their  range. 

"Now,  now,  snuggle  up  a  little,  Peachy." 

She  shifted  back  to  her  first  position. 

"That's  better." 

"Ain't  it  a  swell  night?" 

"Now  we're  comfy — eh?" 

They  were  nosing  through  a  snarl  of  traffic  and 
over  streets  wet  and  slimy  with  thaw.  Men  with 
overcoats  flung  over  their  arms  side-stepped  the 

144 


WHITE    GOODS 

snout  of  the  car.  Delicatessen  and  candy-shop  doors 
stood  wide  open.  Children  shrilled  in  the  grim 
shadows  of  thousand-tenant  tenement-houses. 

"Well,  Peachy,  how  are  you?  Peachy  is  just  the 
name  for  you,  eh?  'Cause  I'd  like  to  take  a  bite 
right  out  of  you — eh,  Peachy  ?  How  are  you  ?" 

"Fine  and — and  dandy." 

"Look  at  me." 

"Aw!" 

"Look  at  me,  I  say,  you  pretty  little  peach,  with 
them  devilish  black  eyes  of  yours  and  them  lips 
that's  got  a  cherry  on  "em." 

She  met  his  gaze  with  an  uncertain  smile  trembling 
on  her  lips. 

"Honest,  you're  the  limit." 

"What's  your  eyes  red  for?" 

"They— they  ain't." 

"Cryin'?" 

"Like  fun." 

"You  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  thought  you'd  been 
crying?  I'd  just  kiss  them  tears  right  away." 

"Yes,  you  would  not." 

"Little  devil!" 

"Quit  calling  me  that."  But  she  colored  as  if 
his  tribute  had  been  a  sheath  of  lilies. 

They  veered  a  corner  sharply,  skidding  on  the 
wet  asphalt  and  all  but  grazing  the  rear  wheels  of  a 
recreant  taxicab. 

"Gad,  George!  you  black  devil  you,  why  don't 
you  watch  out  what  you're  doing?" 

"But,  suh,  I- 

"None  of  your  black  back-talk." 

MS 


HUMORESQUE 

"Jerry!"  She  was  shivering,  and  a  veil  of  tears 
formed  over  her  hot,  mortified  eyes.  "Gee!  what 
are  you  made  of?  You  seen  he  couldn't  help  it 
when  that  taxi  turned  into  us  so  sudden." 

He  relaxed  against  her.  "Aw,  did  I  scare  the 
little  Peachy?  That's  the  way  they  gotta  be 
handled.  I  ain't  ready  by  a  long  shot  to  let  a  black 
devil  spill  my  brains." 

"'Shh-h.     He  couldn't—" 

"Sure  he  could,  if  he  watched.  He's  a  bargain  I 
picked  up  cheap,  anyways,  'cause  he's  lame  and 
can't  hold  down  heavy  work.  And  bargains  don't 
always  pay.  But  I'll  break  his  black  back  for  him 
if —  Aw,  now,  now,  did  I  scare  the  little  peach? 
Gee!  I  couldn't  do  nothing  but  kill  you  with  kind- 
ness if  you  was  driving  for  me.  I'd  just  let  you 
run  me  right  off  this  road  into  the  Hudson  Ocean 
if  you  was  driving  for  me." 

They  were  out  toward  the  frayed  edge  of  the 
city,  where  great  stretches  of  sign-plastered  vacant 
lots  began  to  yawn  between  isolated  patches  of 
buildings  and  the  river  ran  close  enough  alongside 
of  them  to  reflect  their  leftward  lights.  She  smiled, 
but  as  if  her  lips  were  bruised. 

"It  ain't  none  of  my  put-in,  but  he  couldn't  help 
it,  and  I  hate  for  you  to  yell  at  anybody  like  that, 
Jerry." 

"Aw,  aw,  did  I  scare  the  little  Peachy?  Watch 
me  show  the  little  Tootsie  how  nice  I  can  be  when  I 
want  to —  Aw — aw!" 

"Quit." 

She  blinked  back  the  ever-recurring  tears. 

146 


WHITE    GOODS 

"All  tired  out,  too;  all  tired  out.  Wait  till  you 
see  what  I'm  going  to  buy  you  to-night.  A  great 
big  beefsteak  with  mushrooms  as  big  as  dollars 
and  piping-hot  German  fried  potatoes  and  onions. 
M-m-m-m!  And  more  bubbles  than  you  can  wink 
your  eye  at.  Aw — aw,  such  poor  cold  little  hands, 
and  no  gloves  for  such  cold  little  hands!  Here, 
lemme  warm  'em.  Wouldn't  I  just  love  to  wrap  a 
little  Peachy  like  you  up  in  a  great  big  fur  coat  and 
put  them  little  cold  hands  in  a  great  big  muff  and 
hang  some  great  big  headlight  earrings  in  them 
little  bittsie  ears.  Wouldn't  I,  though.  M-m-m-m ! 
Poor  cold  little  hands!" 

Her  wraith  of  a  smile  dissolved  in  a  spurt  of  hot 
tears  which  flowed  over  her  words. 

"Gee!  Ain't  I  the  nut  to— to  cry?  I— I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute." 

"I  knew  when  I  seen  them  red  eyes  the  little 
Peachy  wasn't  up  to  snuff,  and  her  cute  little  devil- 
ishlike  ways.  What's  hurting  you,  Tootsie?  Been 
bounced?  You  should  worry.  I'm  going  to  steal 
you  out  of  that  cellar,  anyways.  Been  bounced?" 

"N-no." 

"The  old  hag  'ain't  been  making  it  hot  for  you, 
has  she?" 

"Sh-she— " 

"Gad!  that  old  hag  gets  my  fur  up.  I  had  a 
mother-in-law  once  tried  them  tricks  on  me  till  I 
learned  her  they  wouldn't  work.  But  the  old  hag 
of  yourn — " 

"It's  her  eyes;  the  doctor  must  have  scared  her 
up  again  to-day.  When  she  gets  scared  like  that 

H7 


HUMORESQUE 

about  'em  she  acts  up  so,  honest,  sometimes  I — I 
just  wish  I  was  dead.  She  don't  think  a  girl  oughtta 
have  no  life." 

"Forget  it.  Just  you  wait.  She's  going  to  wake 
up  some  morning  soon  and  find  a  little  surprise 
party  for  herself.  I  know  just  how  to  handle  an 
old  bird  like  her." 

"Sometimes  she's  just  so  good  to  me,  and  then 
again,  when  she  gets  sore  like  to-night,  and  with 
her  nagging  and  fussing  at  me,  I  don't  care  if  she 
is  my  aunt,  I  just  hate  her." 

"We're  going  to  give  her  a  little  surprise  party." 
Beneath  the  lap  robe  his  hand  slid  toward  hers. 
She  could  feel  the  movement  of  the  arm  that  directed 
it  and  her  own  shrank  away. 

"But  ain't  I  the  limit,  Jerry,  airing  my  troubles 
to  you,  like  you  was  a  policeman." 

"Now,  now — " 

' '  Quit !    Leggo  my  hand . ' ' 

They  were  spinning  noiselessly  along  a  road  that 
curved  for  the  moment  away  from  the  river  into 
the  velvet  shadows  of  trees.  He  leaned  forward 
suddenly,  enveloping  her. 

"I  got  it.  Why  don't  you  lemme  kidnap  you, 
kiddo?" 

"What—" 

"Lemme  kidnap  you  to-night  and  give  the  old 
hag  the  surprise  of  her  life  when  she  wakes  up  and 
finds  you  stolen.  I'm  some  little  kidnapper  when  it 
comes  to  kidnapping,  I  am,  kiddo.  Say,  wouldn't  I 
like  to  take  you  riding  all  wrapped  up  in  a  fur  coat 
with  nothing  but  your  cute  little  face  sticking  out." 

148 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Aw,  you're  just  fooling  me." 

"Fooling!  Lemme  prove  it,  to-night.  Lemme 
kidnap  you  this  very  night.  I — ' 

She  withdrew  stiff-backed  against  his  embrace. 

"Is — is  that  what  you  mean  by — by  kidnapping 
me?" 

"Sure.  There  ain't  nothing  I'd  rather  do.  Are 
you  on,  Peaches?  A  sensible  little  queen  like  you 
knows  which  side  her  bread  is  buttered  on.  There 
ain't  nothing  I  want  more  than  to  see  you  all 
bundled  up  in  a  fur  coat  with — headlights  in  your 
little  bittsie  pink  ears." 

She  sprang  the  width  of  the  seat  from  him. 

' '  You—  What  kind  of  a  girl  do  you  think  I  am  ? 
O  God!  What  kind  of  a  girl  does  he  think  I  am? 
Take  me  home — take  me —  What  kind  of  a  girl  do 
you  think  I  am?" 

He  leaned  toward  her  with  a  quick  readjustment 
of  tone. 

"Just  what  I  said,  Peachy.  What  I  meant  was 
I'd  marry  you  to-night  if  we  could  get  a  license. 
I'd  just  kidnap  you  to-night  if — if  we  could  get 
one." 

"You — you  didn't  mean  that." 

"Sure  I  did,  Peachy.  Say,  with  a  little  girl  of 
my  own  I  ain't  one  of  them  guys  that  you  think  I 
am.  Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Peachy — now 
ain't  you?" 

The  color  flowed  back  into  her  face  and  her  lips 
parted. 

"Jerry —  Only  a  girl  like  me's  got  to  be  careful — 
that  was  all  I  meant,  Jerry.  Jerry!" 

149 


HUMORESQUE 

He  scooped  her  in  his  short  arms  and  kissed  her 
lips,  with  her  small  face  crumpled  up  against  his 
shoulder,  and  she  lay  quiescent  enough  in  his  em- 
brace. Wind  sang  in  her  ears  as  they  rushed 
swiftly  and  surely  along  the  oiled  road,  but  the  two 
small  fists  she  pressed  against  his  coat  lapels  did 
not  relax. 

"Aw,  now,  Peachy,  you  mustn't  treat  a  fellow 
cold  no  more!  Ain't  I  going  to  marry  you?  Ain't 
I  going  to  set  you  up  right  in  my  house  out  in  New- 
ton Heights?  Ain't  I  going  to  give  you  a  swell 
ten-room  house?  Ain't  you  going  to  live  right  in 
the  house  with  my  girl,  and  ain't  she  going  to  have 
you  for  a  little  stepmother?" 

"Jerry,  the  —  the  little  girl.  I  wonder  if  she 
wants — " 

"Sure  she  does.  Her  mother  gets  her  every 
other  month.  I'd  let  her  go  for  good  if  you  don't 
want  her,  except  it  would  do  her  mother  too  much 
good.  The  courts  give  her  to  me  every  other  month 
and  I'll  have  her  down  to  the  last  minute  of  the 
last  hour  or  bust." 

"Jerry!" 

"That's  what  I  gotta  keep  up  the  house  out  there 
for.  The  court  says  I  gotta  give  her  a  home,  and 
that's  why  I  want  a  little  queen  like  you  in  it. 
Gad !  Won't  her  mother  throw  a  red-headed  fit  when 
she  sees  the  little  queen  I  picked !  Gad !" 

"Oh,  Jerry,  her  your  first  wife  and  all!  Won't 
it  seem  funny  my  going  in  her  house  and — and 
living  with  her  kid." 

"Funny  nothing.     Cloonan  won't  think  it's  funny 


WHITE    GOODS 

when  I  tell  her  she's  finished  running  my  house 
for  me.  Funny  nothing.  To-morrow's  Sunday  and 
I'm  going  to  take  you  out  in  the  afternoon  and 
show  you  the  place,  and  Monday,  instead  of  going 
to  your  bargain  bin,  we're  going  down  for  a  license, 
and  you  kiss  the  old  hag  good-by  for  me,  too.  Eh, 
how's  that  for  one  day's  work?" 

"Gee!  and — and — Monday  the  spring  opening 
and  me  not  there!  Jerry,  I — I  can't  get  over  me 
being  a  lady  in  my  own  house.  Me !  Me  that  hates 
ugliness  and  ugly  clothes  and  ugly  living  so.  Me 
that  hates  street-cars  and  always  even  hated  boat 
excursions  'cause  they  was  poor  folks'  pleasures. 
Me  a  lady  in  my  own  house.  Oh,  Jerry!" 

She  quivered  in  his  arms  and  he  kissed  her  again 
with  his  moist  lips  pressed  flat  against  hers. 

"Ten  rooms,  Peachy — that's  the  way  I  do  things." 

They  were  curving  up  a  gravel  way,  and  through 
the  lacy  foliage  of  spring  lights  gleamed,  and  there 
came  the  remoter  strains  of  syncopated  music. 

She  sat  up  and  brushed  back  her  hair 

"Is  this  the  place?" 

"Right-o!  Now  for  that  steak  smothered  in 
mushrooms,  and,  gad!  I  could  manage  a  sweetbread 
salad  on  the  side  if  you  asked  me  right  hard." 

They  drew  up  in  the  flood-light  of  the  en- 
trance. 

'  'Ain't  I  told  you  not  to  open  the  door  for  me, 
George?  I  don't  need  no  black  hand  reaching  back 
here  to  turn  the  handle  for  me.  That  don't  make 
up  for  bad  driving.  Black  hands  off." 

"Jerry!" 


HUMORESQUE 

They  alighted  with  an  uncramping  and  unbend- 
ing of  limbs. 

"How'd  some  Lynnhavens  taste  to  you  for  a 
starter,  Peachy?" 

"Fine,  whatever  they  are." 

A  liveried  attendant  bowed  them  up  the  steps. 

A  woman  in  blue  velvet,  her  white  arms  bare  to 
the  shoulder  and  stars  in  her  hair,  paused  in  the 
doorway  to  drop  her  cloak.  Her  heavy  perfume 
drifted  out  to  meet  them. 

Sadie  Barnet's  clutch  of  her  companion's  arm 
quickened  and  her  thoughts  ran  forward. 

"Jerry — gee!  wouldn't  I  look  swell  in — in  a  dress 
like  that?  Gee!  Jerry,  stars  and  all!" 

The  cords  in  the  muscles  of  his  arm  rose  under 
her  fingers. 

"Them  ain't  one-two-three-six  to  the  duds  I'm 
going  to  hang  on  you.  I  know  her;  she's  an  old- 
timer.  Them  duds  ain't  one-two-three-six." 

"Gee— Jerry!" 

In  the  heart  of  a  silence  as  deep  as  a  bottomless 
pool,  with  the  black  hours  that  tiptoe  on  the  heels 
of  midnight  shrouding  her  like  a  nun's  wimple, 
limbs  trembling  and  her  hands  reluctant,  Sadie 
Barnet  knocked  lightly  at  her  door,  once,  twice, 
thrice,  and  between  each  rap  her  heart  beat  with 
twice  its  tempo  against  her  breast. 

Then  her  stealthy  hand  turned  the  white  china 
knob  ?nd  released  it  so  that  it  sprang  backward 
with  a  click. 

"Who's  that?" 

152 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Me,  Dee  Dee." 

Her  voice  was  swathed  in  a  whisper. 

She  could  hear  the  plong  of  the  bedspring,  the 
patter  of  bare  feet  across  the  floor;  feel  the  slight 
aperture  of  the  opening  door.  She  oozed  through 
the  slit. 

"All  right,  Dee  Dee." 

"God!  I — I  must  have  been  sound  asleep.  What 
time  is  it?" 

"It  isn't  late,  Dee  Dee." 

"Light  the  gas." 

"I — I  can  undress  in  the  dark." 

"Light  the  gas." 

*'  T— " 

"Light  it,  I  say." 

"It's  lit,  Dee  Dee." 

The  figure  in  the  center  of  the  room,  in  her  high- 
necked,  long-sleeved  nightdress,  her  sparse  hair 
drawn  with  unpleasant  tension  from  her  brow,  her 
pale  eyes  wide,  moved  forward  a  step,  one  bare 
foot,  calloused  even  across  the  instep,  extended. 

"Lit?" 

"Dee  Dee,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Gimme — my  glasses." 

She  took  them  from  Miss  Barnet's  trembling 
fingers  and  curved  them  about  her  ears. 

"Quit  your  nonsense  now  and  light  the  gas.  I 
ain't  in  no  humor  for  foolin'.  Quit  waving  that 
little  spark  in  front  of  me.  Light  the  gas.  I  ain't 
going  to  look  at  the  clock.  I'm  done  worrying  about 
your  carryings-on.  I'm  done.  Light  the  gas,  Sadie, 
there's  a  good  girl.  Light  the  gas." 


HUMORESQUE 

"Dee  Dee!  My  God!  Dee  Dee,  I— I  tell  you  it's 
lit— big." 

"There's  a  good  girl,  Sadie.  Don't  fool  your  old 
aunt." 

"See,  dearie,  I  ain't  fooling.  See,  the  gas-jet 
here  beside  the  dresser.  Look — I  can't  turn  it  no 
higher.  Hear  it  sing  and  splutter.  You  ain't 
awake  good  yet,  Dee  Dee." 

Silence — the  ear-splitting  silence  that  all  in  its 
brief  moment  is  crammed  with  years  and  years 
upon  years.  A  cold  gray  wash  seemed  suddenly  to 
flow  over  Miss  Worte's  face. 

"Put  my  ringer  next  to  the  gas  flame.  You — 
you're  lying  to  me  to — to  fool  your  old  aunt.  Lemme 
feel  my  finger  get  burnt." 

They  moved,  these  two,  across  the  floor,  their 
blanched  faces  straining  ahead.  With  the  sudden 
sting  of  heat  finally  across  her  palm,  reddening  it, 
Miss  Worte  flung  wide  her  arms  and  her  head 
backward,  and  her  voice  tore  out  without  restraint. 

"God!  God!  God!"  And  she  fell  to  trembling 
so  that  her  knees  gave  way  under  her  and  she 
crouched  on  the  floor  with  her  face  bared  to  the 
ceiling,  rocking  herself  back  and  forth,  beating  her 
fists  against  her  flat  breasts. 

"God!    God!    God!" 

"Dee  Dee! — Dee  Dee!  my  darling!  my  darling!" 

"OGod!    OGod!    O  God!" 

"Dee  Dee  darling,  it  ain't  nothing!  A  little  too 
much  strain,  that's  all.  'Shh-h-h!  Lemme  bathe 
them.  'Shh-h-h,  my  darling.  Oh,  my  God!  darling! 
'Shh-h-h!" 


WHITE   GOODS 

' '  Lemme  go !  Lemme  go !  He  told  me  to-day  it 
would  come  like  this !  Only  he  didn't  say  how  soon. 
Not  how  soon.  I'm  done  for,  I  tell  you!  I'm  done! 
Kill  me,  Sadie;  if  you  love  me,  kill  me!  He  told  me 
and  I  wouldn't  believe  it!  Kill  me,  girl,  and  put  me 
out  of  it!  I  can't  breathe  in  the  dark!  I  can't!  I 
can't!  I  can't  live  in  the  dark  with  my  eyes  open! 
Kill  me,  girl,  and  put  me  out  of  it — kill  me!  Kill 
me!" 

"Dee  Dee,  my  darling,  ain't  I  right  herewith  you? 
Didn't  you  always  say,  darling,  when  it  came  you — 
you'd  face  it?" 

Like  St.  Cecilia,  who  could  not  die,  she  crouched, 
and  the  curve  of  her  back  rose  and  fell. 

"O  God!     Oh—" 

"Dee  Dee  darling,  try  not  to  holler  out  so! 
Maybe  it  ain't  for — for  good.  Aw,  darling,  keep 
your  head  down  here  next  to  me!  Feel  how  close  I 
am,  Dee  Dee,  right  here  next  to  you.  'Shh-h-h! 
O  God!  Dee  Dee  darling,  you'll  kill  yourself  going 
on  like  that!  Don't  pull  at  your  hair,  darling— 
don't!  Oh,  my  God,  don't!" 

"I'm  done!  Kill  me!  Kill  me!  Don't  make  me 
live  in  the  dark  with  my  eyes  open — don't!  There's 
a  good  girl,  Sadie.  Don't!  Don't!  Don't!" 

From  the  room  adjoining  came  a  rattling  at  the 
barred  door  between. 

"Cut  it,  in  there!  This  ain't  no  barroom.  Go 
tell  your  D.  T.'s  to  a  policeman." 

They  crouched  closer  and  trembling. 

' "Shh-h-h!  Dee  Dee,  darling,  try  to  be  easy  and 
not  raise  the  house — try!" 

155 


HUMORESQUE 

Miss  Worte  lay  back  exhausted  against  Miss 
Barnet's  engulfing  arms.  Her  passion  ebbed  sud- 
denly and  her  words  came  scant,  incoherent,  and  full 
of  breath. 

"  No  use.  No  use.  He  told  me  to-day  he  wouldn't 
operate.  He  told  me.  No,  no,  all  the  colors  so 
pale — even  the  reds — so  pale!  Lavender  and  blue 
I — I  just  couldn't  tell.  I  couldn't.  So  pale.  Two 
yards  she  brought  back  next  day,  kicking  at —  Oh, 
my  God!  Oh,  my  God!" 

"'Shh-h-h,  darling!  Don't  take  on  so!  Wait  till 
morning  and  we'll  get  new  drops  from  him.  'Shh-h-h ! 
Maybe  it's  only  strain." 

"I  know.  I'm  in  the  dark  for  good,  Sadie. 
Oh,  my  God!  I'm  in  the  dark!" 

Except  that  her  face  was  withered,  she  was  like 
Iphigenia  praying  for  death. 

"Lemme  die!     Lemme  die!" 

'"Shh-h-h— darling—    That's  it,  rest  quiet." 

Suddenly  Miss  Worte  flung  up  one  arm  about  Sadie 
Barnet's  neck,  pressing  her  head  downward  until 
their  faces  touched. 

"Dee  Dee  darling,  you — you  hurt." 

"You  won't  never  leave  me,  Sadie,  like  you  said 
you  would?  You  won't  leave  me  alone  in  the  dark, 
Sadie?" 

"No,  no,  my  darling;  you  know  I  won't,  never, 
never." 

"You'll  keep  me  with  you  always,  promise  me 
that,  Sadie.  Promise  me  that  on  the  curl  of  your 
mother's  hair  you  wear  in  your  locket.  Promise 
me,  little  Sadie,  you  won't  leave  your  aunt  Dee  Dee 

156 


WHITE    GOODS 

alone  in  the  dark.  My  poor  little  girl,  don't  leave 
me  alone  in  the  dark.  I  can't  see;  Sadie,  I  can't 
see  no  more.  Promise  me,  Sadie,  promise  me, 
promise  me!" 

From  Sadie  Barnet's  heart,  weakening  her  like 
loss  of  blood,  flowed  her  tears.  She  kissed  the  heart 
of  Edith  Worte  where  it  beat  like  a  clock  beneath 
the  high-necked  nightdress ;  she  made  of  her  bosom 
a  pillow  of  mercy  and  drew  the  head  up  to  its 
warmth. 

"I — I  promise,  Dee  Dee,  on  her  curl  of  hair. 
Sure  I  promise.  Always  will  I  keep  you  with  me, 
darling,  always,  always,  so  help  me,  always." 

Along  the  road  to  Newton  Heights  Spring  and  her 
firstlings  crept  out  tenderly.  Even  close  up  to  the 
rim  of  the  oiled  highway  itself,  an  occasional  colony 
of  wood  violets  dared  to  show  their  heads  for  the 
brief  moment  before  they  suffocated.  The  threat  of 
rain  still  lay  on  the  air,  but  the  Sunday  rank  and 
file  of  motors  threw  back  tops,  lowered  windshields, 
and  turned  shining  noses  toward  the  greening  fields. 
In  the  red-leather  tonneau,  with  her  little  face 
wind-blown  and  bared  to  the  kiss  in  the  air,  Sadie 
Barnet  turned  to  her  companion  and  peered  under 
the  visor  of  his  checked  cap  and  up  into  his  small 
inset  eyes. 

"Is — is  that  the  house  up  on  the  hill  there,  Jerry?" 
"Not  yet.     It's  right  around  the  next  bend." 
"Gee!     My — my  hands  are  like  ice,  I  — I'm  that 
nervous." 
"Lemme  feel." 


HUMORESQUE 

"No." 

"That's  a  swell  way  to  treat  a  fellow  who's  prom- 
ised to  marry  you." 

"You  —  you  must  excuse  me  to  -  day,  Jerry. 
Honest,  without  a  wink  of  sleep  last  night — you 
must  excuse  me  to-day.  I — I'm  so  upset  with  poor 
Dee  Dee,  and  on  top  of  that  so  nervous  about — your 
little  girl  and  the  house  and  everything.  And, 
Dee  Dee — when  I  think  of  Dee  Dee." 

"Don't  think,  Peachy;  that's  the  way  to  get 
around  that." 

"I  —  I  can't  help  it.  You  ought  to  seen  her  at 
the  doctor's  this  morning,  how — how  the  poor  thing 
lost  her  nerve  when  he  told  her  that  there — there 
wasn't  no  hope." 

"Aw,  now,  cut  the  sob  stuff,  Peachy!  You  can't 
help  it.  Nobody  can,  that's  the  trouble.  Say, 
what  kind  of  a  Httle  queen  will  they  think  you  are  if 
I  bring  you  home  all  soppy  with  crying?" 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come,  Jerry.  I'm  no  kind 
of  company  to-day,  only  all  of  a  sudden  she's  got 
so — so  soft  with  me  and  she  made  me  come  while 
she — she  tried  to  take  a  nap.  Poor  old  Dee  Dee!" 

"Yeh,  and  poor  old  devil.  Maybe  she's  just 
getting  what's  due  to  her." 

"Jerry!" 

"Sure,  I  believe  every  one  of  us  gets  what's  com- 
ing to  us." 

"She—" 

"Here  we  are,  Tootsie.  See,  Peachy,  that's  the 
house  I  bought  her  and  her  mother,  and  they  was 
kicking  at  it  before  the  plaster  was  dry." 

158 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Oh!    Oh!" 

"That's  a  concrete  front.  Neat,  ain't  it?  That's 
a  mosaic-floor  porch,  too,  I  built  on  a  year  after  her 
and  her  mother  vamoosed." 

"It's  a  beau-tiful  house,  Jerry." 

"You're  the  kind  of  a  kid  that  knows  how  to 
appreciate  a  home  when  she  gets  it.  But  her  with 
her  she-devil  of  a  mother,  they  no  sooner  got  in  than 
they  began  to  side  with  each  other  against  me — 
her  and  her  old  mother  trying  to  learn  me  how  to 
run  my  own  shebang." 

"Where—" 

' '  Gad !  they're  living  in  a  dirty  Harlem  flat  now  and 
tryin'  to  put  it  over  on  me  that  they're  better  off  in 
it.  Bah !  if  I  had  to  double  up  on  alimony,  I  wouldn't 
give  her  a  smell  at  this  house,  not  a  smell." 

"Say,  but  ain't  it  pretty,  Jerry,  right  up  over  the 
river,  and  country  all  around,  and  right  over  there 
in  back  the  street-cars  for  the  city  when  you  want 
them?" 

"This  is  going  to  be  your  street -car,  Peachy,  a 
six-cylinder  one." 

She  colored  like  a  wild  rose. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  I — I  keep  forgetting." 

"By  Gad!  it's  a  good  thing  I'm  going  to  give 
up  my  city  rooms  and  come  out  here  to  watch  my 
p's  and  q's.  Gosh  darn  her  neck !  I  told  her  to  quit 
cluttering  up  that  side-yard  turf  with  her  gosh  darn 
little  flower-beds !  Gosh  darn  her  neck !  There  never 
was  a  servant  worth  her  hide." 

"Jerry,  why,  they're  beautiful!  They  just  look 
beautiful,  those  pansies,  and  is  that  the  little  girl 


HUMORESQUE 

sitting  up  there  on  the  porch  steps?  Is — is  that 
Maisie?" 

They  drew  to  a  stop  before  the  box-shaped  ornate 
house,  its  rough  concrete  front  pretentiously  inlaid 
over  the  doors  and  windows  with  a  design  of  pebbles 
stuck  like  dates  on  a  cake,  and  perched  primly  on 
the  topmost  step  of  the  square  veranda  the  inert 
figure  of  a  small  girl. 

"Aw,  ain't  she  cute?" 

Miss  Barnet  sprang  lightly  to  the  sidewalk,  and 
beside  her  Mr.  Jerome  Beck  flecked  the  dust  of  travel 
from  the  bay  of  his  waistcoat,  shaking  his  trousers 
knees  into  place. 

"This  has  got  your  Twenty- third  Street  dump 
beat  a  mile,  and  then  some,  'ain't  it,  Peachy?" 

"Jerry,  call  her  here,  the  little  girl.  You  tell 
her  who  —  who  I  am.  Tell  her  gently,  Jerry, 
and — and  how  good  I'm  going  to  be  to  her  and— 
Aw,  ain't  I  the  silly,  though,  to  feel  so  trem- 
bly?" 

The  child  on  the  step  regarded  their  approach 
with  unsmiling  eyes,  nor  did  she  move  except  to  draw 
aside  her  dark  stuff  skirts  and  close  her  knees  until 
they  touched. 

' '  Hello  there !  Moping  again ,  eh  ?  Get  up !  Didn '  t 
I  tell  you  not  to  let  me  catch  you  not  out  playing  or 
helping  Cloonan  around?  Say  howdy  to  this  lady. 
She's  coming  out  here  to  live.  Come  here  and  say 
howdy  to  her." 

The  child  shrank  to  the  newel-post,  her  narrow  lit- 
tle face  overtaken  with  an  agony  of  shyness. 

"Cat  got  your  tongue?  Say  howdy.  Quit 
1 60 


WHITE    GOODS 

breathing   through  your  mouth  like  a  fish.     Say 
howdy,  that's  a  good  girl." 

"Don't  force  her,  Jerry.  She's  bashful.  Ain't 
you,  dearie?  Ain't  you,  Maisie?" 

"Moping,  you  mean.  If  it  was  her  month  in 
the  dirty  Harlem  flat  she'd  be  spry  enough.  She 
knows  what  I  mean  whan  I  say  that,  and  she  knows 
she  better  cut  out  this  pouting.  Quit  breathing 
through  your  mouth  or  I'll  stick  a  cork  in  it." 

"Aw,  Jerry,  she  can't  help  that!" 

"Cat  got  your  tongue?    Where's  Cloonan?" 

The  child's  little  face  quivered  and  screwed,  each 
feature  drawing  itself  into  position  for  tears.  Her 
eyes  disappeared,  her  nostrils  distended,  her  mouth 
opened  to  a  quivering  rectangle,  and  she  fell  into 
silent  weeping. 

"Aw,  Jerry — you — you  scared  her!  Come  here,, 
darling;  come  here  to  me,  Maisie;  come,  dearie." 

But  the  child  slid  past  the  extended  arms,  down  the 
wooden  steps,  and  around  a  corner  of  the  house,  her 
arm  held  up  across  her  eyes. 

"Aw,  Jerry,  honest,  you  can  be  awful  mean!" 

"I'll  get  that  out  of  her  or  know  the  reason  why. 
They've  poisoned  her  against  me,  that's  about  how 
it  is  in  a  nutshell.  I'll  get  that  pouting  to  be  in 
that  dirty  Harlem  hole  with  her  mother  and  grand- 
mother out  of  her  or  know  the  reason  why." 

"She—" 

"Look,  this  is  the  front  hall.  Guess  this  'ain't 
got  that  sty  in  Twenty-third  Street  beat  some. 
Look !  How  do  you  like  it  ?  This  way  to  the  parlor 
and  dining-room." 

161 


HUMORESQUE 

Sadie  Barnet  smiled  through  the  shadows  in  her 
eyes. 

"Jerry !  Say,  ain't  this  beau-tif ul !  A  upright  piano 
and  gold  chairs  and —  Why,  Jerry!  why,  Jerry!" 

"And  look  in  here,  the  dining-room.  Her  and 
her  mother  shopped  three  weeks  to  get  this  oak 
set,  and  see  this  fancy  cabinet  full  of  china.  Slick, 
ain't  it?" 

Her  fingers  curled  in  a  soft  clutch  around  her  throat 
as  if  her  breath  came  too  fast. 

"Jerry,  it — it's  just  grand." 

He  marshaled  her  in  all  the  pride  of  ownership. 

"Look,  butler's  pantry,  exposed  plumbing." 

"Oh!    Oh!" 

"Kitchen." 

"Oh!    Oh!" 

"Here,  Cloonan.  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  bring 
somebody  out  to  take  hold  and  sit  on  you  and  your 
bills,  didn't  I?  This  lady's  coming  out  here  to- 
morrow, bag  and  baggage.  Hand  over  your  account- 
book  to  her  and  I  bet  she  does  better  with  it.  See 
that  you  fix  us  up  in  honeymoon  style,  too.  Bag 
and  baggage  we're  coming.  Savvy?" 

The  figure  beside  the  ill-kept  stove,  bowl  in  lap  and 
paring  potatoes  with  the  long  fleshless  hands  of  a 
bird,  raised  a  still  more  fleshless  face. 

"Howdy!" 

"  Cloonan 's  been  running  this  shebang  for  two 
years  now,  Peachy,  and  there  ain't  nothing  much 
she  can't  learn  you  about  my  ways.  They  ain't 
hard.  Look !  Porcelain -lined  sink.  It's  got  Twenty- 
third  Street  beat  some,  'ain't  it?" 

162 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Yes,  Jerry." 

"Fix  us  a  beefsteak  supper,  Cloonan,  and  lemme 
weigh  up  them  groceries  I  sent  out  and  lemme  see 
your  books  afterward.  Come,  Peachy,  here,  up  these 
stairs.  This  is  the  second  floor.  Pretty  neat,  ain't 
it?  Her  and  her  mother  shopped  three  more  weeks 
on  this  oak  bed-set.  Some  little  move  out  here 
from  Twenty-third  Street  for  a  little  rooming- 
house  queen  like  you,  eh?  Neat  little  bedroom,  eh, 
Peachy?  Eh?" 

His  face  was  close  to  her  and  claret  red  with  an 
expression  she  did  not  dare  to  face. 

"And  what's  this  next  room  here,  Jerry?  Ain't 
it  sweet  and  quiet-looking!  Spare  room?  Ain't 
it  pretty  with  them  little  white  curtains?  Quit, 
quit,  Jerry!  You  mustn't — you  mustn't." 

She  broke  from  his  embrace,  confusion  muddling 
her  movements. 

"Is  this  the — the  spare  room?" 

"It  is,  now.  It  used  to  be  the  old  woman's  till 
I  laid  down  on  the  mother-in-law  game  and  squealed. 
Yeh,  I  used  to  have  a  little  mother-in-law  in  our 
house  that  was  some  mother-in-law.  Believe  me, 
she  makes  that  old  devil  of  yourn  look  like  a  prize 
angel." 

"I—  This  '11  be  just  the  room  for  Dee  Dee, 
Jerry,  where  she  can  feel  the  morning  sun  and  hear 
the  street-cars  over  there  when  she  gets  lonesome. 
She  ought  to  have  the  sunniest  room,  because  it's 
something  she  can  feel  without  seeing — poor  thing. 
This  will  be  a  swell  room  for  poor  old  blind  Dee 
Dee,  won't  it,  Jerry?  Won't  it,  Jerry  dear?" 

163 


HUMORESQUE 

"Cut  the  comedy,  Peachy.  There's  a  neat  free 
ward  waiting  for  her  just  the  other  direction  from 
the  city  than  Newton  Heights.  Cut  the  comedy, 
Peachy." 

"Jerry,  I — I  gotta  have  her  with  me.  I —  Now 
that  she — she's  in  the  dark.  She  couldn't  stand  an 
institution,  Jerry,  she — she  just  couldn't." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,  but  they  get  over  it. 
I  know  a — " 

"She  couldn't,  Jerry.  She  'ain't  had  much  in  her 
life,  but  she's  always  had  a  roof  over  her  head  that 
wasn't  charity,  and  she  always  said,  Jerry,  that  she 
couldn't  never  stand  a — a  institution.  She  can  take 
any  other  room  you  say,  Jerry.  Maybe  there's  a 
little  one  up-stairs  in  the  third  story  we  could  fix 
up  comfy  for  her;  but  she's  in  the  dark  now,  Jerry, 
and,  my  God!  Jerry,  she  just  couldn't  stand  an 
institution!" 

He  patted  her  shoulder  and  drew  her  arm  through 
his. 

"You  lemme  take  care  of  that.  She  don't  need 
to  know  nothing  about  it.  We'll  tell  her  we're 
sending  her  for  a  visit  to  the  country  for  a  while. 
After  the  second  day  she'll  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in 
a  rug.  They're  good  to  'em  in  those  places ;  good  as 
gold." 

"No,  no,  Jerry!  No,  no!  I  gotta  have  her  with 
me !  She  raised  me  from  a  kid  and — and  she  couldn't 
stand  it,  Jerry !  I  gotta  have  her,  I  gotta !  I  want 
her!" 

His  mouth  sagged  downward  suddenly  and  on  an 
oblique. 

164 


WHITE    GOODS 

"Say,  somebody  must  have  given  you  a  few  les- 
sons in  nagging,  yourself.  Them's  the  lines  she 
used  to  recite  to  me  about  her  she-devil  of  a  mother, 
too.  Gad !  she  used  to  hang  on  her  mother's  apron- 
strings  like  she  was  tied." 

"Jerry,  I-" 

"Come,  Peachy,  don't  get  me  sore.  Come,  let's 
talk  about  to-morrow.  We  gotta  get  the  license 
first  and — " 

"Jerry,  I —  Promise  me  I  can  have  her  with  me 
first.  I —  Just  a  little  yes  is  all  I  want — Jerry  dear — 
just  a  little  yes." 

A  frown  gathered  in  a  triple  furrow  on  his  brow. 

"Now,  kiddo,  you  got  to  cut  that  with  me,  and  cut 
it  quick.  If  there's  two  things  I  can't  stand  it's 
nagging  and  pouting.  Cloonan  can  tell  you  what 
pouting  can  drive  me  to.  I'll  beat  it  out  of  that  girl 
of  mine  before  she's  through  with  me,  and  I  won't 
stand  it  from  no  one  else.  Now  cut  it,  Peachy, 
that's  a  nice  girl." 

He  paced  the  carpeted  space  of  floor  between  the 
dresser  and  bed,  his  mouth  still  on  the  oblique. 

"Now  cut  it,  Peachy,  I  said,  and  cut  it  quick." 

She  stood  palpitating  beside  the  window,  her  eyes 
flashing  to  his  face  and  fastening  there. 

"God!  I— I  wanna  go." 

"Where?" 

Her  glance  flashed  past  him  out  of  the  window  and 
across  the  patch  of  rear  lawn.  A  street-car  bobbed 
across  the  country ;  she  followed  it  with  eager  eyes. 

"I  wanna  go." 

He  advanced,  conciliatory.     "Aw,  now,  Peachy, 
165 


HUMORESQUE 

a  row  just  the  day  before  we  are  married.  You 
don't  want  to  start  out  making  me  train  you  just 
like  you  was  a  little  kid.  If  you  was  a  little  girl  I 
could  beat  your  little  ways  out  of  you,  but  I  wanna 
be  on  the  level  with  you  and  show  you  how  nice  I 
can  be.  All  the  things  I'm  going  to  give  you, 
all—" 

"Quit,  you!  I  wanna  go!  I  wanna  go!" 
"You  can  go  to  hell,  for  my  part.  I'm  going  to 
get  a  steak  inside  of  me  before  we  budge.  Quit 
your  fooling.  See,  you  nearly  got  me  sore  there. 
Come,  the  car  won't  be  back  for  us  until  six.  Come, 
Peachy,  come." 

She  was  past  him  and  panting  down  the  stairs, 
out  across  the  patch  of  rear  lawn,  and  toward  the 
bobbing  street-car,  the  streamer  of  ribbon  at  her 
throat  flying  backward  over  her  shoulder. 

In  the  bargain  basement  of  the  Titanic  Store 
the  first  day  of  the  spring  opening  dragged  to 
its  close.  In  a  meadow  beside  a  round  pond  a  tree 
dripped  apple  blossoms,  each  so  frail  a  thing  that  it 
fluttered  out  and  away,  too  light  to  anchor. 

In  careless  similitude  the  bargain  basement  of  the 
Titanic  Store  resuscitated  from  its  storerooms,  and 
from  spring  openings  long  gone  by,  dusty  garlands  of 
cotton  May  blossoms,  festooning  them  between  the 
great  white  supporting  pillars  of  the  basement  and 
intertwining  them. 

Over  the  white-goods  counter  and  over  Sunday,  as 
it  were,  a  papier-mache  pergola  of  green  lattice- 
work and  more  cotton-back  May  blossoms  had 

166 


WHITE   GOODS 

sprung  up  as  if  the  great  god  Wotan  had  built  it 
with  a  word.  Cascades  of  summer  linens,  the  apple 
green  and  the  butter  yellow,  flowed  from  counters 
and  improvised  tables.  Sadie  Barnet's  own  mid- 
aisle  bin  had  blossomed  into  a  sacrificial  sale  of  lawn 
remnants,  and  toward  the  close  of  the  day  her  stock 
lay  low,  depleted. 

Max  Meltzer  leaned  out  of  his  bower,  and  how 
muted  his  voice,  as  if  it  came  from  an  inner  throat 
that  only  spoke  when  the  heart  bade  it. 

"Little  one,  them  remnants  went  like  hot  cakes, 
didn't  they?" 

"Hot  cakes!  Well,  I  guess.  You'd  have  thought 
there  was  a  mill-end  sale  on  postage  stamps." 

"And  if  you  don't  look  all  tired  out!  If  you  just 
don't!" 

The  ready  tears  swam  in  her  voice. 

"It's  —  it's  been  awful  —  me  away  from  her  all 
day  like  this.  But,  anyways,  I  got  news  for  her  when 
I  go  home  to-night  about  her  five  weeks'  benefit 
money.  Old  Criggs  was  grand.  He's  going  to 
send  the  committee  to  see  her.  Anyways,  that's 
some  good  news  for  her." 

"I  just  can't  get  her  out  of  my  mind,  neither. 
Seems  like  I — I  just  can  see  her  poor  blind  face  all 
the  time." 

"M-me,  too." 

"They  say  the  girls  up  in  the  ribbons  been  crying 
all  day.  She  was  no  love-bird,  but  they  say  she 
wasn't  bad  underneath." 

"God  knows  she — she  wasn't." 

"That's  the  way  with  some  folks;  they're  hard 
12  167 


HUMORESQUE 

on  top,  but  everybody  knows  hard-shell  crabs  have 
got  sweeter  meat  than  soft." 

"Nobody  knows  that  she  was  a  rough  diamond 
better  than  me.  I  got  sore  at  her  sometimes,  but  I 
— I  know  she  was  always  there  when  I — I  needed 
her,  alrighty." 

"Now,  now,  little  girl,  don't  cry!  You're  all 
worn  out." 

"She — she  was  always  there  to  stand  by  me  in 
— in  a  pinch." 

"Honest,  Miss  Sadie,  you  look  just  like  a  pretty 
little  ghost.  What  you  need  is  some  spring  air, 
girlie,  some  spring  air  for  a  tonic.  Wouldn't  I 
just  love  to  take  you  all  by  your  little  self  down  the 
river  to-night  on  one  of  them  new  Coney  boats, 
where  we  could  be  —  right  quiet.  Say,  wouldn't 
I?" 

"No— no!" 

"I  wanna  talk  to  you,  Miss  Sadie.  Can't  you 
guess  ?  I  wanna  get  you  all  by  yourself  and  talk  to 
you  right  in  your  little  ear." 

"'Shh-h-h!    You  mustn't  talk  like  that." 

"That's  the  only  way  I  have  of  trying  to  tell  you 
how — how  I  feel,  Miss  Sadie — dearie." 

"'Shh-h-h!" 

"When  I  call  you  that  it  means — well,  you  know, 
dearie,  you  know.  That's  why  I  wanna  take  you 
to-night,  dearie,  all  by  your  little  self  and— 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Meltzer!  I  can't  leave  her  alone  like 
that.  I  promised  I  would  never  leave  her  alone  in 
the  dark  if — if  I  could  help  it." 

"Ain't  I  the  dub?  Sure  you  can't  leave  her, 
1 68 


WHITE    GOODS 

We  gotta  stick  by  her  now,  dearie.  'Ain't  we? 
'Ain't  we?" 

A  red  seepage  of  blood  surged  across  his  face  and 
under  his  hair.  Beneath  his  little  hedge  of  mustache 
his  lips  quivered  as  if  at  their  own  daring. 

"We  gotta  stick  by  her,  dearie." 

All  her  senses  swam,  nor  could  she  control  the 
fluttering  of  her  hands. 

"Oh— Mr.  Meltzer— Max!" 

"What  you  and  poor  old  Dee  Dee  need  is  some  of 
this  spring  air.  Gee!  wouldn't  I  love  to  take  you — 
and  her  down  the  river  to-night  on  one  of  them 
new  Coney  boats?  Gee!  would  I?  Just  you  and — 
and  her." 

"Max — oh,  Max  dearie!" 


"HEADS" 

BY  the  great  order  of  things  which  decreed  that 
about  the  time  Herod,  brother  to  no  man,  died, 
Jesus,  brother  to  all  men,  should  be  born;  and  that 
Rabelais,  moral  jester,  should  see  light  the  very 
year  that  orthodox  Louis  XI  passed  on,  by  that 
same  metaphysical  scheme  reduced  to  its  lowliest, 
Essman's  drop-picture  machine,  patent  applied  for, 
was  completed  the  identical  year  that,  for  Rudolph 
Pelz,  the  rainy-day  skirt  slumped  from  a  novelty  to  a 
commodity. 

At  a  very  low  tide  in  the  affairs  of  the  Novelty 
Rainy  Day  Skirt  Company,  Canal  Street,  that  year  of 
our  Lord,  1898,  when  letter-head  stationery  was  about 
to  be  rewritten  and  the  I-haven't-seen-you-since-last- 
century  jocosity  was  about  to  be  born,  Rudolph  Pelz 
closed  his  workaday  by  ushering  out  Mr.  Emil  Hahn, 
locking  his  front  door  after  his  full  force  of  two  women 
machine-stitchers,  and  opening  a  rear  door  upon  his 
young  manhood's  estate.  A  modest-enough  holding 
in  the  eyes  of  you  or  me  as  beholders;  but  for  the 
past  week  not  an  evening  upon  opening  that  door  but 
what  tears  rushed  to  his  throat,  which  he  laughed 
through,  for  shame  of  them. 

On  a  bed,  obviously  dragged  from  its  shadowy 
170 


'HEADS' 

corner  to  a  place  beside  the  single  window,  and 
propped. up  so  that  her  hair,  so  slickly  banding  her 
head  in  two  plaits,  sprang  out  against  the  coarsely 
white  pillows,  Mrs.  Rosa  Sopinsky  Pelz,  on  an 
evening  when  the  air  rose  sultry,  stale,  and  even 
garbage-laden  from  a  cat-and-can-infested  court- 
yard, flashed  her  quick  smile  toward  that  opening 
door,  her  week-old  infant  suckling  at  her  breast. 

"You  ought  to  seen,  Roody;  she  laughed!  Puck- 
ered herself  up  into  the  cutest  little  grin  when 
mamma  left  just  now." 

Mr.  Pelz  wound  his  way  through  an  overcrowded 
huddle  of  furniture  that  was  gloomily,  uglily  utilita- 
rian. A  sideboard  spread  in  pressed  glass;  a  chest 
of  drawers  piled  high  with  rough-dry  family  wash; 
a  coal-range,  and  the  smell  and  sound  of  simmering. 
A  garland  of  garlic,  caught  up  like  smilax,  and 
another  of  drying  red  peppers.  On  a  shelf  above  the 
sink,  cluttered  there  with  all  the  pitiful  unprivacy 
of  poverty,  a  layout,  to  recite  which  will  label  me 
with  the  nigritude  of  the  realist,  but  which  is  actually 
the  nigritude  of  reality — a  dish  of  brown-and-white 
blobs  of  soap;  a  coffee-cup  with  a  great  jag  in  its 
lip;  a  bottle  of  dried  beans;  a  rubber  nipple  floating 
in  a  saucer  of  water;  a  glass  tumbler  containing  one 
inverted  tooth-brush;  a  medicine-bottle  glued  down 
in  a  dark-brown  pool  of  its  own  substance;  a  propped- 
up  bit  of  mirror,  jagged  of  edge;  a  piece  of  comb; 
a  rhinestone  breastpin;  a  bunion-plaster;  a  fork; 
spoon;  a  sprouting  onion.  Yet  all  of  this  somehow 
lit  by  a  fall  of  very  coarse,  very  white,  and  very 
freshly  starched  lace  curtains  portiere-fashion  from 

171 


HUMORESQUE 

the  door,  looped  back  in  great  curves  from  the 
single  window,  and  even  skirting  stiffly  and  cleanly 
the  bureau-front  and  bed-edge. 

''How  is  my  little  mammela?"  said  Mr.  Pelz, 
leaning  over  the  bed  to  kiss  Mrs.  Pelz  on  the  shining 
plaits,  the  light-tan  column  of  throat  and  the  little 
fist  pressed  so  deeply  into  her  bosom. 

"Just  ought  to  seen,  Roody — honest,  she  laughed 
and  nearly  jerked  off  mamma's  sheidel!"  1 

"Red  head!"  he  said,  stroking  down  at  the  warm 
bulge  of  blanket,  so  snugly  enclosed  in  the  crotch  of 
mothering  arm. 

"It's  redder  than  yours  already,  Roody." 

"She's  sure  a  grand  little  thing  cuddled  up  there, 
ain't  it  so,  mammela?" 

She  reached  up  to  pat  his  blue  shirt-sleeve. 

"There's  some  herring  on  the  table  mamma 
brought  over,  and  some  raw  meat  and  onions. 
That's  some  borshtsh  on  the  stove  Etta  carried  all 
the  way  over  from  Hester  Street  for  your  supper." 

"And  what  for  the  little  mammela?" 

"I'm  fed  up,  Roody.  Mamma  closed  the  store 
at  five  to  run  over  with  some  of  that  milk-shake  like 
Doctor  Aarons  said.  He  sent  his  little  son  Isadore 
over  with  the  prescription.  Like  I  said  to  mamma, 
she  should  let  the  Canal  Street  Kosher  Sausage 
Company  do  double  the  business  from  five  until  six 
while  she  closes  shop  to  carry  her  daughter  a  milk- 
shake! Like  I  was  used  to  it  from  home!" 

"When  my  girl  gets  to  be  a  little  mammela,  the 
best  shouldn't  be  none  too  good." 

1  Black  wig  worn  by  orthodox  Jewish  women  after  marriage. 
172 


"HEADS* 

She  continued  to  stroke  up  at  his  sleeve  and  oc- 
casionally on  up  into  his  uneven  shock  of  red  hair. 

"You  miss  me  in  the  shop,  Roody?" 

"You  should  just  see  once  how  that  Ruby  Graben- 
heiner  sits  at  your  machine !  She  does  one-half  your 
work  not  one-half  so  good." 

"I'll  be  back  next  week  Monday." 

He  patted  her  quickly.  "No!  No!  A  mam- 
mela's  place  is  with  her  baby." 

"Roody,  you  make  me  laugh.  I  should  sit  at 
home  now  since  we  got  a  new  mouth  to  feed  ?  That 
would  be  a  fine  come-off!" 

"Who  do  you  think  was  just  in,  Rosie?  Emil 
Hahn." 

"Sol  is  going  to  make  for  me,  Roody,  one  of  those 
little  packing-case  cribs  like  he  built  for  Etta  up  in 
the  pants-factory,  so  when  the  machine  works  it 
rocks,  too.  Did — did  the  check  from  Solomon  & 
Glauber  come  in  on  the  last  mail,  Roody?" 

"Now,  Rosie,  you  mustn't  worry  yourself  about 
such—" 

"What  you  looking  so  funny  for,  Roody?" 

"I  was  starting  to  tell  you,  Rosie  —  Hahn  was 
just  in  and — ' 

"Roody,  don't  change  the  subject  on  me  always. 
You  looked  funny.  Is  it  something  wrong  with 
Solomon  &  Glau— " 

"If  you  don't  take  the  cake,  Rosie!  Now,  why 
should  I  look  funny?  'Funny,'  she  says  I  look. 
I'm  hungry.  I  smell  Etta's  borshtsh." 

She  half  raised  herself,  the  pulling  lips  of  the  child 
drawing  up  the  little  head  from  the  cove  of  arm. 


HUMORESQUE 

"Rosie,  you  mustn't  lift  up  that  way!" 

"Roody,  I  can  read  you  like  a  book!  Solomon  & 
Glauber  have  countermanded,  too." 

"Now,  Rosie,  wouldn't  that  keep  until — " 

"They  have!" 

"Well,  if  you  got  to  know  it,  Rosie,  they're  ship- 
ping back  the  consignment." 

"Roody!" 

"What  you  going  to  do  about  it?  Give  you  my 
word  never  seen  the  like.  It's  like  the  rainy-day 
skirt  had  died  overnight.  All  of  a  sudden  from  a 
novelty,  I  find  myself  with  such  a  commodity  that 
every  manufacturer  in  the  business  is  making  them 
up  for  himself." 

"You  seen  it  first,  though,  Roody.  Nobody  can 
take  it  away  from  you  that  you  seen  first  how  the 
rainy-day  skirt  and  its  shortness  would  be  such  a 
success  with  the  women." 

"'Seen  it  first,'  she  says!  Say,  what  good  does 
it  do  me  if  I  didn't  see  far  enough?  I  pick  for 
myself  such  a  success  that  I  crowd  myself  out  of 
business." 

"It's  a  dirty  shame!  A  big  firm  like  Solomon  & 
Glauber  should  not  be  allowed  to — " 

"Say,  if  it  wouldn't  be  Solomon  &  Glauber,  it 
would  be  Funk  &  Hausman  or  any  other  firm.  The 
rainy-day  skirt  has  slipped  out  of  my  hands,  Rosie, 
to  the  big  fellows.  We  must  realize  that  for  our- 
selves. That's  the  trouble  when  you  don't  deal  in 
a  patented  product.  What's  the  little  fellows  like 
myself  to  do  against  a  firm  like  Solomon  &  Glauber? 
Start  something?" 

J74 


'HEADS' 

"Three  countermands  in  a  week,  and  no  orders 
coming  in!" 

"Say,  it  don't  tickle  my  ribs  no  more  than  yours." 

"Roody,  maybe  it's  the  worst  thing  ever  happened 
to  us  you  wouldn't  listen  to  mamma  and  be  satisfied 
with  being  chief  cutter  at  Lipschuts'." 

"Shame  on  you,  Rosie!  You  want  your  daughter 
to  grow  up  with  a  pants-cutter  all  her  life  for  a 
father?  You  want  I  should  die  in  somebody  else's 
harness.  Maybe  I  didn't  hit  it  right  away,  but  I 
say  yet,  if  a  fellow's  got  the  eyes  and  the  nerve  to 
see  ahead  a  little  with  his  imagination — " 

"'Imagination.'     He  talks  like  a  story-book." 

"Now — now,  take  Hahn,  Rosie — there's  a  fellow's 
got  imagination — but  not  enough.  I  know  it  makes 
you  mad  when  I  talk  on  his  picture-machine,  but  you 
take  it  from  me — there's  a  fellow  with  a  good  thing 
under  his  very  nose,  but  he — he  'ain't  quite  got  the 
eyes  to  see  ahead." 

"Say,  for  such  a  good  thing  like  Emil  Hahn's 
picture-machine,  where  his  wife  had  to  work  in  my 
own  mother's  sausage-store,  I  can't  make  myself 
excited." 

"He  'ain't  quite  got  the  eyes  to  see,  Rosie,  the 
big  idea  in  it.  He's  afraid  of  life,  instead  of  making 
it  so  that  life  should  be  afraid  of  him.  Ten  dollars 
cheaper  I  can  buy  that  machine  to-day  than  last 
week.  A  song  for  it,  I  tell  you." 

"Ninety  dollars  to  me  is  no  cheap  song,  Roody." 

"The  people  got  to  be  amused  the  same  as  they 
got  to  be  fed.  A  man  will  pay  for  his  amusements 
quicker  than  he  will  pay  his  butcher's  or  his  doctor's 

'75 


HUMORESQUE 

bill.  It's  a  cash  business,  Rosie.  All  you  do  with 
such  a  machine  like  Hahn's  is  get  it  well  placed,  drop 
your  penny  in  the  slot,  and  see  one  picture  after 
another  as  big  as  life.  I  remember  back  in  the  old 
country,  the  years  before  we  came  over,  when  I  was 
yet  a  youngster — " 

"You  bet  Hahn  never  put  his  good  money  in  that 
machine.  I  got  it  from  Birdie  Hahn  herself.  For 
a  bad  debt  he  took  it  over  along  with  two  feather 
beds  and — " 

"One  after  another  pictures  as  big  as  life,  Rosie, 
like  real  people  moving.  One  of  them,  I  give  you 
my  word,  it's  grand !  A  woman  it  shows  all  wrapped 
tight  around  in  white,  on  a  sofa  covered  over  with 
such  a  spotted — what  you  call — leopard-skin." 

"To  me  that  has  a  sound,  Roody,  not  to  be  proud 
of—" 

"A  living  picture,  with  such  neck  and  arms  and— 

"That's  enough,  Roody!  That's  enough!  I'm 
ashamed  even  for  your  daughter  here!" 

"Such  a  machine,  maybe  some  day  two  or  three,  set 
up  in  a  place  like  Coney  Island  or,  for  a  beginning,  in 
Pleasure  Arcade,  is  an  immense  idea,  Rosie.  Until  an 
invention  like  this,  nine-tenths  of  the  people  couldn't 
afford  the  theyater.  The  drop-picture  machine  takes 
care  of  them  nine- tenths." 

"Theyaters  are  no  place  for  the  poor." 

"That's  where  you're  wrong — they  need  it  the 
most.  I  don't  want  to  get  you  worked  up,  Rosie, 
while  you  ain't  strong,  but  every  day  that  we  wait 
we're  letting  a  great  idea  slip  through  our  fingers. 
Jf  I  don't  buy  that  machine  off  Emil  Hahn,  somebody 

176 


'HEADS' 

else  will  see  in  it  what  I  see.  Then  all  our  lives  we 
will  have  something  to  reproach  ourselves  with." 

Mrs.  Pelz  let  slide  her  hand  beneath  the  pillow, 
eyes  closing  and  her  face  seeming  to  whiten. 

"Ninety  dollars!  Twenty  dollars  less  than  every 
cent  we  got  saved  in  the  world.  It  ain't  right  we 
should  gamble  with  it,  Roody.  Not  now." 

"Why  not  now,  Rosie?  It's  all  the  more  reason. 
Is  it  worth  maybe  a  little  gamble  our  Bleema  should 
grow  up  like  the  best  ?  I  got  bigger  plans  for  her  and 
her  little  mammela  than  such  a  back  room  all  their 
lives.  In  a  few  years,  maybe  three  rooms  for  our- 
selves in  one  of  them  newfangled  apartment-houses 
up  on  Second  Avenue  with  turn-on  hot  water — " 

"That's  right — you'll  have  her  riding  in  a  horseless 
carriage  next!" 

"I  tell  you,  it's  a  big  idea!" 

' '  I  wish  we  had  ten  cents  for  every  big  idea  you've 
been  struck  with." 

"That's  just  why,  Rosie,  I'm  going  to  hit  one 
right." 

Mrs.  Pelz  withdrew  then  the  slow  hand  from  be- 
neath the  pillow  and  a  small  handkerchief  with  a 
small  wad  knotted  into  it. 

"Nearly  every — cent — in — the  world,  Roody, 
that  we've  got.  Saved  nearly  penny  by  penny. 
Our  Bleema — it's  a  sin — our — our — " 

"Sin  nothing!" 

"Our  week-old  little  girl— it— " 

"Nothing  ventured  in  life,  Rosie,  nothing  squeezed 
out  of  it.  Don't  put  it  back!  Look,  the  baby  her- 
self wants  it!  Papa's  little  Bleema!  Look!  She's 


HUMORESQUE 

trying  to  lift  herself.  Ain't  that  remarkable,  Rosie — 
look  at  that  child  lifting  for  that  handkerchief!" 

"Our  little  baby  girl!  If  it  was  for  ourselves 
alone,  all  right,  maybe,  take  a  chance — but  for — 

Suddenly  Mr.  Pelz  clapped  his  thigh.  "I  got  it! 
I  got  it !  We'll  let  the  little  Bleema  decide  it  for  us. 
How's  that  ?  She  should  decide  it  for  us  if  we  take 
a  gamble  on  her  daddy's  big  idea!  Here — I  put  a 
five-cents  piece  in  her  little  hand  and  see  which  way 
she  drops  it.  The  little  mammela  will  say  which 
way  it  is  to  be — heads  or  tails.  How's  that,  Rosie — 
the  baby  should  decide  it  for  us?" 

"Roody — we  mustn't!" 

"Heads  or  tails,  Rosie?" 

"I— I—" 

"Quick!" 

"H-heads!" 

"Quick  now,  papa's  baby,  open  up  little  fist!" 

"Roody,  not  so  rough!  She  can't  hold  that  big 
nickel." 

"That's  just  what  I  want — she  should  let  it  fall." 

"Roody,  Roody,  I  hope  it's  tails." 

The  coin  rolled  to  the  bed-edge,  bounced  off  to 
the  floor,  rolled  to  the  zinc  edge. 

Immediately  after,  on  all-fours,  his  face  screwed 
up  for  scrutiny  and  the  back  of  his  neck  hotly  ridden 
with  crimson,  Mr.  Pelz  leaned  after. 

"Roody— what?" 

"Heads!" 

Where  Riverside  Drive  reaches  its  rococo  climax 
of  the  twelve-thousand-dollar-a-year  and  twelve- 

178 


'HEADS' 

story-high  apartment-house  de  luxe  and  duplex,  and 
six  baths  divided  by  fourteen  rooms  is  equal  to  solid- 
marble  comfort,  Elsinore  Court,  the  neurotic  Prince 
of  Denmark  and  Controversy  done  in  gilt  mosaics  all 
over  the  foyer,  juts  above  the  sky-line,  and  from  the 
convex,  rather  pop-eyed  windows  of  its  top  story, 
bulges  high  and  wide  of  view  over  the  city. 

From  one  of  these  windows,  looking  north, 
Rudolph  Pelz,  by  the  holding-aside  of  a  dead  weight 
of  pink  brocade  and  filet  lace,  could  gaze  upon  a 
sweep  of  Hudson  River  that  flowed  majestically  be- 
tween the  great  flank  of  the  city  and  the  brobding- 
nagian  Palisades. 

After  a  day  when  he  had  unerringly  directed  the 
great  swinging  crane  of  this  or  that  gigantic  transac- 
tion it  had  a  laving  effect  upon  him — this  view  of  sure 
and  fluent  tide  that  ran  so  perpetually  into  infinitude. 

Yet  for  Mr.  Pelz  to  attempt  to  articulate  into  words 
this  porcelain-thin  pillar  of  emotions  was  to  shatter 
it  into  brittle  bits. 

"Say,  Rosie,  ain't  that  a  view  for  you?  That's 
how  it  is  with  life — a  river  that  rises  with  getting 
born  and  flows  into  death,  and  the  in-between  is  life 
and — and — " 

"Roody,  will  you  please  hurry  for  sup — dinner? 
Do  you  want  Feist  to  arrive  with  you  not  yet 
dressed?" 

Mr.  Pelz  turned  then  into  an  interior  that  was  as 
pink  and  as  silk  as  the  inside  of  a  bud — satin  walls 
with  side  brackets  softly  simulating  candles;  a 
Canet  bed,  piled  with  a  careful  riot  of  sheerest  and 
roundest  of  pillows;  that  long  suit  of  the  interior 

179 


HUMORESQUE 

decorator,  the  chaise-longue;  the  four  French  en- 
gravings in  their  gilt  frames;  the  latest  original 
Josephine's  secretaire;  the  shine  of  a  white  adjoin- 
ing bathroom.  Before  a  door  -  impaneled  mirror, 
Mrs.  Pelz,  in  a  black-lace  gown  that  was  gracious  to 
her  rotundity. 

"Just  look!     I'm  all  dressed  already." 

Mr.  Pelz  advanced  to  her,  his  clasp  closing  over 
each  of  her  bare  arms,  smile  and  gaze  lifting. 

"  Rosie,  you've  got  them  all  beat!  Guess  why  I 
wish  I  was  your  diamond  necklace." 

"  Roody,  it's  nearly  seven.  Don't  make  me 
ashamed  for  Feist." 

"Guess!" 

"All  right,  then,  I  guess." 

"So  I  could  always  be  round  your  neck." 

His  hand  flew  immediately  to  the  lay  of  gems  at 
her  throat,  a  small  flush  rising. 

"Roody,  you  hear  me — hurry!  Stop  it,  I  tell 
you!  You  pinch."  But  she  was  warmly  pink  now, 
the  shake  of  her  head  setting  the  heavy-carat  gems 
in  her  ears  waggling. 

Time,  probably  emulating  destiny,  had  worked 
kindly  here;  had  brought  to  Mrs.  Pelz  the  soft,  dove- 
like  maturity  of  her  little  swell  of  bosom ;  the  white, 
even  creamy  shoulders  ever  so  slightly  too  plump 
between  the  blades;  the  still  black  hair  polished  and 
waved  into  expensive  permanence.  Out  of  years 
that  had  first  veered  and  finally  taken  course  under 
his  unquestionable  captaincy,  Rudolph  Pelz,  with 
some  of  their  storm  and  stress  written  in  deep 
brackets  round  his  mouth,  the  red  hair  just  beginning 

180 


"HEADS" 

to  pale  and  thin,  and  a  certain  roundness  of  back 
enhancing  his  squattiness,  had  come  snugly  and 
simply  into  harbor.  Only  the  high  cheek-bones  and 
bony  jaw-line  and  the  rather  inconveniently  low 
voice,  which,  however,  had  the  timbre  of  an  ormolu 
clock  in  the  chiming,  indicating  his  peculiar  and 
covert  power  to  dominate  as  dynamically  as  un- 
grammatically a  board  of  directors  reckoning  in 
millions  across  the  mahogany. 

"Shall  I  call  in  Sato  to  help  you  dress,  Roody?" 
"Please — no!    Just  to  have  him  in  the  room  with 
his  yellowness  and  tiptoes  makes  me  nervous  like  a 
cat." 

"I  got  your  shirt  and  studs  laid  out  myself." 
He  pinched  her  cheek  again.    "Rosie  Posy!" 
"You  had  a  hard  day,  Roody?    You  look  tired." 
"I  don't  like  the  battle  of  Waterloo  in  the  'Saint 
Elba'  picture." 

"Roody,  that  scene  it  took  such  a  fortune  to  build 
into  the  shape  of  the  letter  A?" 

"It  looks  like  what  is  it.  Fake!  The  way  it  reads 
in  that  French  Revolution  by  that  fellow  Carlyle  they 
gave  me  to  read  and  the  way  it  looks  in  the  picture 
is  the  difference  of  black  from  white.  For  fifty 
thousand  dollars  more  or  less  on  a  four  -  hundred- 
thousand  -  dollar  picture  I  don't  have  a  fake 
Waterloo." 

"I  should  say  not,  Roody,  when  you're  famous  for 
your  water  scenes  in  all  your  big  pictures!  In  'The 
Lure  of  Silk '  it's  the  scenes  on  the  water  they  went 
craziest  over." 

"I've  already  got  the  passage  engaged  for  next 

181 


HUMORESQUE 

week  to  shoot  the  company  over  to  France.  That 
windmill  scene  on  Long  Island  looks  as  much  like 
the  windmill  north  of  Fleuris,  where  Napoleon  could 
see  the  Blucher  troops  from,  as  I  look  like  a  wind- 
mill scene.  'Sol,'  I  says,  'it  looks  just  like  what  it 
is — a  piece  of  pasteboard  out  of  the  storehouse  set 
up  on  a  rock.  Eat  those  feet  of  film,  Sol,'  I  says  to 
him,  'plant  'em,  drown  'em — anything  you  like  with 
'em.  That  kind  of  fake  stuff  won't  make  'Saint 
Elba'  the  greatest  picture  ever  released,  and  every 
picture  turned  out  from  these  studios  has  got  to 
be  just  that.'  I  wish  you  could  have  heard,  Rosie, 
in  the  projection-room,  quiet  like  a  pin  after  I  came 
out  with  it." 

"Fifty  thousand  dollars,  Roody?" 

"Yes.  'Fifty  thousand  dollars,'  begins  Sol  with 
me,  too.  '  Fifty  thousand — one  hundred  thousand — 
two!'  I  said.  'It  would  make  no  difference.  If  we 
can't  fake  the  kind  of  battle-plain  that  wouldn't 
make  Napoleon  turn  over  in  his  grave,  we  cross  the 
ocean  for  the  real  thing.'  'Fifty  thousand  dollars,' 
Sol  keeps  saying — you  know  how  he  cries  with  his 
voice.  'Fifty  thousand  dollars  your  grandmother!' 
I  hollered.  'For  a  few  dollars  more  or  less  I  should 
make  a  Rudolph  Pelz  picture  something  I'm  ashamed 
of.'  Am  I  right,  Rosie?  Am  I  right?" 

"I  should  say  so,  Roody,  for  a  few  dollars  you 
should  not  belittle  yourself." 

"Not  if  your  old  man  knows  it,  by  golly!  and  I 
think  he  does." 

"Hurry  now,  Roody;  you  know  how  Bleema  likes 
it  you  should  be  dressed." 

182 


"HEADS' 

"Believe  me,  if  Feist  had  his  choice  he  wouldn't 
be  dressed,  neither.  Full  dress  for  grandma  and  all 
of  us  to  look  at  each  other  in!  When  there's  com- 
pany, it's  bad  enough,  but  for  Feist  and  a  few  ser- 
vants, hanged  if  I  see  it!" 

"Does  it  hurt,  Roody,  to  give  the  child  a  little 
pleasure?  Anyway,  she's  right  —  people  like  us 
should  get  dressed  up  for  sup — dinner.  I  wouldn't 
be  surprised  if  she  didn't  bring  Lester  Spencer  back 
for  dinner  from  automobiling." 

"He  leaves  to-night  at  ten  with  the  company  for 
Pennsylvania  and  the  Horseshoe  Bend  picture. 
Anyways,  I  don't  see  where  it  comes  in  that  for  a 
fellow  who  draws  his  salary  off  of  me  I  have  to  dress. 
I  got  to  say  it  for  him,  though,  give  the  devil  his  due, 
he  does  a  good  piece  of  work  where  Sol  succeeds  in 
getting  him  off  center -stage  in  his  scene  with 
Wellington." 

' '  Lester  is  a  good  actor.  Madame  Coutilly,  to-day, 
when  I  had  my  manicure,  just  raved  over  him  and 
Norma  Beautiful  in  'The  Lure  of  Silk.'" 

"He'll  be  a  screen  proposition  some  day  if  we  can 
chain  down  some  of  his  conceit.  Only,  where  such 
friendships  with  him  and  Bleema  comes  in,  I  don't 
see.  I  don't  like  it." 

"Say,  the  child  likes  to  run  around  with  celebrities. 
Why  shouldn't  it  give  her  pleasure  over  the  other 
girls  from  Miss  Samuels's  school  to  be  seen  out  once 
in  a  while  with  Lester  Spencer,  their  favorite,  or 
Norma  Beautiful?  'America's  Darlings,'  I  see  this 
week's  Screen  Magazine  calls  'em.  It's  natural  the 
child  should  enjoy  it." 
13  183 


"Let  her  enjoy;  only,  where  it  comes  in  I  should 
have  to  sit  across  from  him  at  supper  three  times 
this  week,  I  don't  see.  Out  of  the  studio,  me  and 
Spencer  don't  talk  the  same  language.  To-night, 
him  and  Feist  would  mix  like  oil  and  water." 

"Does  Feist  know  yet,  Roody,  you  closed  the  deal 
on  the  Grismer  estate?" 

"Sure!  I  says  to  him  to-day:  'Feist,  with  us  for 
next-door  neighbors  of  your  country  estate,  together 
we  own  nearly  half  of  Long  Island.'  Am  I  right?" 

"Like  I  says  last  night  in  mamma's  room  to  Etta 
and  Sol,  'I  was  used  to  thirty-four  rooms  and  nine- 
teen baths  from  home  yet !'  Poor  mamma — how  she 
laughed!  Just  like  before  her  stroke." 

"Nothing,  Rosie,  not  one  hundred  rooms  and 
fifty  baths — nothing  I  can  ever  do  for  you  is  one- 
tenth  that  you  deserve." 

"And  nothing,  Roody,  that  I  can  do  for  you  is 
one-hundredth  what  you  deserve." 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  Rosie,  if,  with  all  we  got, 
there  isn't  maybe  some  little  happiness  I've  over- 
looked for  you." 

She  lifted  herself  by  his  coat  lapels,  kissing  him. 
"Such  a  question!" 

".So  many  times  it  comes  up  in  the  scenarios  and 
the  picture-plots,  Rosie,  how  money  don't  always 
bring  happiness." 

"It  wouldn't,  Roody — not  a  penny's  worth  to  me 
without  you  and  Bleema.  But  with  you,  Roody,  no 
matter  how  happy  I  feel,  it  seems  to  me  I  can't  ever 
feel  happy  enough  for  what  we  have  got.  Why,  a 
woman  just  couldn't — why,  I — I  always  say  about 

184 


'HEADS' 

you,  Roody,  only  yesterday  to  my  own  sister-in-law, 
'Etta,'  I  says,  'it's  hard  for  me  to  think  of  anything 
new  to  wish  for.'  Just  take  last  week,  for  instance, 
I  wished  it  that,  right  after  the  big  check  you  gave 
for  the  Armenian  sufferers,  you  should  give  that 
extra  ten  thousand  in  mamma's  name  to  the  Belgian 
sufferers.  Done!  Thursday,  when  I  seen  that  gray 
roadster  I  liked  so  much  for  Bleema,  this  afternoon 
she's  out  riding  in  it.  It  is  a  wonder  I  got  a  wish 
for  anything  left  in  me." 

"To  have  you  talk  like  this,  Rosie,  is  the  highest 
of  all  my  successes." 

"If — if  there's  one  real  wish  I  got  now,  Roody, 
it  is  only  for  our  Bleema.  We  got  a  young  lady, 
honey;  we  got  to  put  on  our  thinking-cap." 

"'Young  lady' — all  of  a  sudden  she  decides  we've 
got!  Young  baby,  you  better  say." 

"A  graduate  this  month  from  Miss  Samuels's 
Central  Park  School  he  calls  a  baby!" 

"Let  me  see — how  old  is — " 

"He  don't  know  his  own  child's  age!  Well,  how 
many  years  back  is  it  since  we  were  in  rainy-day 
skirts?" 

"My  God!  Ten — fourteen — eighteen!  Eighteen 
years!  Our  little  Bleema!  It  seems  yesterday, 
Rosie,  I  was  learning  her  to  walk  along  Grand 
Street." 

"You  haven't  noticed,  Roody,  David  Feist?" 

"'Noticed'?" 

"Say,  you  may  be  a  smart  man,  Rudolph  Pelz — 
everybody  tells  me  you  are — but  they  should  know 
once  on  the  Picture  Rialto  how  dumb  as  a  father 

185 


HUMORESQUE 

you  are.  'Noticed?'  he  asks.  All  right  then — if 
you  need  a  brick  house — noticed  that  David  Feist 
hates  your  daughter  and  'ain't  got  eyes  for  her  and 
don't  try  every  excuse  to  get  invited  here  for  sup — 
dinner." 

"You  mean,  Rosie — " 

"Of  course  I  mean!  It's  pitiful  how  he  follows 
her  everywhere  with  his  eyes.  In  the  box  last  night 
at  the  opera  you  was  too  asleep  to  see  it,  but  all 
evening  Etta  was  nudging  me  how  he  nearly  ate  up 
our  Bleema  just  with  looks." 

"You  women  with  your  nonsense!" 

"I  guess,  Rudolph,  it  would  be  a  bad  thing. 
Our  daughter  and  a  young  man  smart  enough  to 
make  himself  from  a  celluloid  collar-cutter  to  a 
millionaire  five  times  over  on  a  little  thing  like  in- 
venting a  newfangled  film-substance  should  tie  up 
with  the  only  child  of  Rudolph  Pelz,  the  picture 
king." 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Rosie,  such  talk  makes  me 
sick." 

"You'd  hate  it,  wouldn't  you?  A  prince  like 
David  Feist." 

"People  don't  talk  such  things  till  they  happen. 
If  our  daughter  could  have  the  King  of  England  and 
didn't  want  him,  I'd  say  she  should  not  marry  the 
King  of  England.  I  want  my  girl  home  by  me  yet, 
anyway,  for  many  a  long  day.  She  should  be  play- 
ing with  her  dolls  instead  of  her  mother  and  aunt 
Etta  filling  her  up  with  ideas.  Don't  think  I'm  so 
stuck,  neither,  on  how  she  runs  around  with  my  film 
stars," 

186 


"HEADS' 

"Honest,  Roody,  the  way  you're  so  strict  with 
that  child  it's  a  shame!  The  girl  has  got  to  have  her 
pleasure." 

"Well,  if  she's  got  to  have  her  pleasure,  she  should 
have  it  with  young  men  like  Feist  and  not  with — " 

"There!     Didn't  I  tell  you  so?     Didn't  I?" 

"Say,  I  don't  deny  if  I  got  some  day  to  have  a 
son-in-law,  my  first  choice  for  him  would  be  Feist." 

"Roody,  the  two  estates  together  in  one!" 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Rosie — honest,  I'm  sur- 
prised. Such  talk!" 

Mrs.  Pelz  took  a  pinch  of  his  each  cheek,  tiptoeing 
to  kiss  him  squarely  on  the  lips. 

"Go  get  dressed,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  wait  for  you." 

"Rosie  Posy,"  he  said,  clucking  into  his  cheek 
with  his  tongue  and  moving  away  through  the  pink- 
shaded  twilight. 

At  the  door  to  the  whitely  glittering  bathroom 
she  called  to  him  again,  softly;  he  turning. 

"What  '11  you  bet,  Roody,  that  I  get  my  biggest 
wish  as  soon  as  I  got  the  gray  roadster  and  the 
Belgian  check?" 

"Women's  nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Pelz,  his  voice 
suddenly  lost  in  the  violent  plunge  of  water  into 
porcelain. 

In  a  drawing-room  faithful  to  Dunlap  Brothers' 
exorbitant  interpretation  of  the  Italian  Renaissance, 
a  veritable  forest  of  wrought-iron  candle-trees 
burned  dimly  into  a  scene  of  Pinturicchio  table, 
tapestry-surmounted  wedding-chest,  brave  and  hide- 
ous with  pastiglia  work,  the  inevitable  camp-chair  of 

187 


HUMORESQUE 

Savonarola,  an  Umbrian-walnut  chair  with  lyre- 
shaped  front,  bust  of  Dante  AJighieri  in  Florentine 
cap  and  ear-muffs,  a  Sienese  mirror  of  the  soul, 
sixteenth-century  suit  of  cap-a-pie  armor  on  gold- 
and-black  plinth,  Venetian  credence  with  wrought- 
iron  locks.  The  voiceless  and  invoiced  immobility 
of  the  museum  here,  as  if  only  the  red-plush  railing, 
the  cords  from  across  chairs,  and  the  "Do  Not  Sit" 
warnings  to  the  footsore  had  been  removed. 

Against  a  chair  cruel  to  the  back  with  a  carved 
coat  of  arms  of  the  Lombardi  family  Mr.  David 
Feist  leaned  lightly  and  wisely.  If  his  correct- 
enough  patent  pumps  ever  so  slightly  escaped  the 
floor,  his  span  of  shoulders  left  hardly  an  inch  to  be 
desired.  There  was  a  peninsula  of  rather  too  closely 
shaved  but  thick  black  hair  jutted  well  down  Mr. 
Feist's  brow,  forming  what  might  have  been  bald 
but  were  merely  hairless  inlets  on  either  side.  Be- 
hind pince-nez  his  eyes  sparkled  in  points  not  unlike 
the  lenses  themselves.  Honed  to  a  swift,  aquiline 
boniness  of  profile  which  cut  into  the  shadows,  there 
was  something  swiftly  vigorous  about  even  his 
repose. 

Incongruous  enough  on  the  Pinturicchio  table, 
and  as  if  she  had  dared  to  walk  where  mere  moderns 
feared  to  tread,  a  polychrome  framed  picture  of 
Miss  Bleema  Pelz,  tulle-clouded,  piquant  profile  flung 
charmingly  to  the  northwest,  and  one  bare  shoulder 
prettily  defiled  with  a  long  screw-curl,  lit,  as  it  were, 
into  the  careful  gloom. 

Deliberately  in  range  of  that  photograph,  and  so 
beatific  of  gaze  that  it  was  as  if  his  sense  were  soaked 

188 


"HEADS' 

in  its  loveliness,  Mr.  Feist  smiled,  and,  smiling, 
reddened.  Enter  then  Mrs.  Pelz,  hitting  softly  into 
white  taffetas  beneath  the  black  lace;  Mr.  Pelz, 
wide,  white  and  boiled  of  shirt-front. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Feist!  It's  a  shame  the  way 
we  kept  you  vvaicing." 

"Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Pelz — a  pleasure.  Hello!  how's 
my  friend,  the  picture  king?" 

"Rotten,"  said  Mr.  Pelz,  amiably,  shaking  hands 
with  a  great  riding-up  of  cuff,  and  seating  himself 
astride  a  Florentine  bench  and  the  leather-embossed 
arms  of  the  Strozzi  family. 

"Roody,  what  a  way  to  sit!" 

"'What  a  way  to  sit/  she  tells  me.  I'd  like  to 
see  a  fellow  sit  any  way  in  this  room  without  making 
a  monkey  of  himself.  Am  I  right,  Feist?  The 
Eyetalians  maybe  didn't  know  no  better,  but  I  should 
have  to  suffer,  too,  when  for  four-seventy-nine  I  can 
buy  myself  at  Tracy's  the  finest  kind  of  a  rocking- 
chair  that  fits  me." 

"Roody!" 

"Say,  Feist  agrees  with  me;  only,  he  don't  know 
you  well  enough  yet  to  let  on.  I  notice  that  with 
all  his  Louis-this  and  Louis-that  rooms  in  his  own 
house,  up  in  his  own  room  it  is  a  good  old  Uncle 
Sam's  cot  and  a  patent  rocker." 

"You've  got  a  gorgeous  room  here  just  the  same, 
Pelz." 

"Gorgeous  for  a  funeral." 

"Every  collector  in  the  country  knows  that  table. 
I  had  my  eye  on  it  for  my  music-room  once  myself 
when  it  was  shown  at  Dunlap's." 

189 


HUMORESQUE 

"Dunlap's  are  a  grand  firm  of  decorators,  Mr. 
Feist.  I'm  having  them  do  Grismer,  too." 

"Well,  Feist,  how  does  it  feel  to  have  us  for 
neighbors?" 

"Immense,  Pelz!" 

"Like  I  said  to  my  husband,  between  us  the  way 
the  estates  adjoin,  we  got  a  monopoly  on  Long 
Island — ain't  it  so?" 

"And  believe  me,  Mrs.  Pelz,  you'll  never  regret 
the  buy.  The  finest  pleasure  my  money  brought 
me  yet  is  that  view  of  my  little  bedroom  I  took  you 
up  to,  Pelz." 

"Wonderful!" 

"I've  got  an  outlook  there,  Mrs.  Pelz,  is  a 
paradise  to  see.  You  can  have  all  my  forty-two 
rooms  and  two  garages  if  you'll  leave  me  my  little 
top  room  with  its  miles  of  beautiful  greenness,  and 
— and  so — so  much  beauty  that — that  it  gets  you 
by  the  throat.  I — don't  express  it  the  way  I  see 
it,  but—" 

"I  should  say  so,  Mr.  Feist!  Out  of  every  one 
of  our  thirty-four  rooms  and  eighteen  baths  you 
can  see  a  regular  oil-painting." 

Mr.  Pelz  leaned  over,  tongue  in  cheek  and,  at  the 
screwing  noise  again,  poking  Mr.  Feist  in  the  region 
of  the  fifth  rib. 

"She  said  to  me  up-stairs  just  now,  Feist,  'Like 
we  was  used  to  it  from  home?'  Eh?  C-c-c-cluck! 
Eighteen  baths  a  day!  I  know  the  time  when  one 
every  Saturday  night  was  stuck  up." 

"Roody,  honest,  you're  awful!" 

"Say,  me  and  Feist  speak  the  same  language. 
190 


'HEADS'1 

We  ain't  entertaining  a  lot  of  motion-picture  stars 
to-night." 

"I  want  Mr.  Feist  to  come  over  some  night  to  sup 
— dinner  when  we  have  a  few  of  them  over.  We're 
great  friends,  Mr.  Feist,  with  Norma  Beautiful  and 
Allan  Hunt  and  Lester  Spencer  and  all  that  crowd. 
We  entertain  them  a  good  deal.  My  daughter  is 
quite  chums  with  them  all.  Elsie  Love  sleeps  here 
some  nights.  Honest,  Mr.  Feist,  you  never  saw  a 
more  unassuming  girl  for  her  salary." 

"Yes,  especially  is  she  unassuming  when  she  spoils 
ninety  feet  of  film  yesterday  in  a  row  with  Spencer 
over  who  should  have  one-half  inch  nearer  to  the 
center  of  the  picture." 

"My  husband,  Mr.  Feist,  has  got  no  patience  with 
temperament." 

"Honey,  a  little  supper  wouldn't  hurt." 

"I'll  send  and  see  if  Bleema  is  ready  yet.  She's 
been  out,  taking  Lester  Spencer  in  her  new  runabout 
her  papa  bought  her.  I  wish  you  could  see,  Mr. 
Feist,  the  way  the  traffic  policemen  smile  after  that 
girl  the  way  she  handles  a  car.  If  I  do  say  it,  she's 
a  picture." 

"If  you  ask  me,  Mrs.  Pelz,  the  finest  of  the 
objects  in  this  room  of  fine  things,  it  won't  take 
me  long  to  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Feist,  leaning  forward 
to  lift  for  closer  gaze  the  framed  photograph. 

"Now  you're  shouting,  Feist!" 

"That  picture  don't  half  do  her  justice.  If  I  do 
say  it,  Mr.  Feist  —  if  that  child  had  to  make  her 
living,  she'd  be  a  fortune  in  pictures.  'No,  mamma,' 
she  always  says;  'God  forbid  if  I  have  to  make  my 

191 


HUMORESQUE 

living  some  day,  I  want  to  be  a  famous  writer.' 
I  want  you  to  read  sometime,  Mr.  Feist,  some  of 
that  girl's  poetry.  I  cry  like  a  baby  over  the  sad 
ones.  And  stories!  There's  one  about  a  poor  little 
girl  who  could  look  out  of  her  window  into  the  house 
of  a  rich  girl  and — " 

"Feist,  her  mother  just  hates  that  child!" 

"Say,  old  man,  I  don't  see  any  medals  on  you 
for  hating  her." 

"He's  worse  than  I  am,  Mr.  Feist;  only,  he  hides 
it  behind  making  fun  of  me.  I  always  say  if  Bleema 
Pelz  wanted  the  moon,  her  father  would  see  to  it 
that  his  property-man  got  the  real  one  for  her." 

"You — you've  got  a  beautiful,  sweet  little  girl 
there,  Pelz.  I  don't  blame  you." 

"Feist,  if  I  didn't  know  it,  I'd  be  an  ungrateful 
dog." 

"Her  papa  can't  realize,  Mr.  Feist,  we  haven't  got 
a  baby  any  more." 

"I— realize  it,  Mrs.  Pelz." 

"You — you  see,  Roody?" 

"I — I — guess  I'm  the  old-fashioned  kind  of  a  fel- 
low, Pelz,  when  it  comes  to  girls.  I — I  guess  I  do 
it  the  way  they  used  to  do  it — the  parents  first — 
but — but — now  that  we — we're  on  the  subject — I — I 
like  your  daughter,  Pelz — my  God !  Pelz,  but — but  I 
like  your  little  daughter!" 

An  Augsburg  clock  ticked  into  a  suddenly  shaped 
silence,  Mr.  Pelz  rising,  Mr.  Feist  already  risen. 

"I  haven't  got  much  besides  a  clean  record  and 
all  that  love  or  money  can  buy  her,  Pelz,  but — well — 
you  know  me  for  what  I  am,  and — " 

192 


"HEADS" 

"Indeed  we  do,  Mr.  Feist!  I  always  say  to  my 
husband  my  favorite  of  all  the  young  men  who 
come  here  is — " 

"You  know  what  my  standing — well,  with  men 
and  in  business  is,  Pelz,  and  as  far  as  taking  care  of 
her  goes,  I  can  make  her  from  a  little  princess  into 
a  little  queen — " 

"The  young  man  that  is  lucky  enough  to  get 
Bleema,  Mr.  Feist — " 

"Not  that  the  money  part  is  everything,  but  if 
what  I  am  suits  you  and  Mrs.  Pelz,  I  want  to  enter 
the  ring  for  her.  I  might  as  well  come  out  with  it. 
I  wouldn't  for  anything  on  earth  have  her  know  that 
I've  spoken  to  you — yet — not  till  after  I've  spoken 
with  her — but — well,  there's  my  cards  on  the  table, 
Pelz." 

Mr.  Pelz  held  out  a  slow  and  rigid  arm,  one  hand 
gripping,  the  other  cupping  Mr.  Feist  at  the  elbow. 

"It's  the  finest  compliment  I  could  pay  to  any 
man  on  God's  earth  to  say  it,  Feist,  but  if  it's  got  to  be 
that  my  little  baby  girl  has  grown  up  to  an  age  where 
she—" 

"She's  already  a  year  older  than  me  when  I  mar- 
ried you,  Roody." 

"If  it's  got  to  be, 'then  there's  one  man  on  earth 
I  can  give  her  up  to  with  happiness.  That  man  is 
you,  Feist." 

Into  this  atmosphere  so  surcharged  that  it  had 
almost  the  singing  quality  of  a  current  through  it 
entered  Miss  Bleema  Pelz,  on  slim  silver  heels  that 
twinkled,  the  same  diaphanous  tulle  of  the  photo- 
graph enveloping  her  like  summer,  her  hair  richer, 


HUMORESQUE 

but  blending  with  the  peach-bloom  of  her  frock,  the 
odor  of  youth  her  perfume. 

"Bleema  darling,  you're  just  in  time!" 
"Hello,  moms!" — in  the  little  lifted  voice  trained 
to  modulation,  and  kissing  Mrs.  Pelz  in  light  con- 
sideration of  powdered  areas.  "Hello,  dads!" — tip- 
toeing and  pursing  her  mouth  into  a  bud.  "Good 
evening,  Mr.  Feist." 

"Looks  like  I'm  the  left-over  in  this  party,"  said 
Mr.  Feist,  slow  to  release  her  hand  and  wanting  not 
to  redden. 

"Naughty-naughty!"  said  Miss  Pelz,  with  a  flash 
of  eyes  to  their  corners,  a  flouncing  of  tulle,  and  then 
landing  ever  so  lightly  on  her  father's  knee  and  at 
the   immediate   business   of   jerking   open   his   tie. 
"Bad,  bad  dad!     Didn't  let  Sato  dress  him  to-night." 
"You  little  red  head,  you!" 
"Stop  it!     Hold  up  your  chin." 
"Honey,  we're  all  starvationed." 
"Lester  '11  be  here  any  minute  now." 
"Lester  Spencer  coming  for  dinner,  Bleema?" 
"Surely.     I  dropped  him  just  now  at  the  Lions' 
Club  to  change  his  clothes.     Now,  don't  get  excited, 
dads;    he's  leaving  right  after  dinner  to  catch  his 
train  for  Horseshoe  Bend." 

"I  must  tell  Williams  to  lay  another — " 
"I've  already  told  him,  mamma.  Here  he  is  now! 
Come  on  in,  Lester;  you're  holding  up  the  family. 
You've  never  met  Mr.  Feist,  have  you,  the  film  king? 
You  two  ought  to  get  acquainted — one  makes  the 
films  and  the  other  makes  them  famous." 

There  was  a  round  of  greetings,  Mr.  Spencer  pass- 

194 


"HEADS' 

ing  a  hand  that  had  emerged  white  and  slim  through 
the  ordeal  of  thousands  of  feet  of  heroics. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Pelz?  Boss!  Mr.  Feist, 
glad  to  know  you!" 

What  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men,  seeming  to 
despise,  had  secretly,  in  the  organ-reverberating 
darkness  of  the  motion-picture  theater,  yearned  over 
Mr.  Lester  Spencer's  chest  expansion,  hair  pomade, 
and  bulgeless  front  and  shirt-front!  When  Lester 
Spencer,  in  a  very  slow  fade-out,  drew  the  exceed- 
ingly large-of-eye  and  heaving-of-bosom  one  unto 
his  own  immaculate  bosom,  whole  rows  of  ladies, 
with  the  slightly  open-mouthed,  adenoidal  expression 
of  vicarious  romance,  sat  forward  in  their  chairs. 
Men  appraised  silently  the  pliant  lay  of  shirt,  the 
uncrawling  coat-back,  and  the  absence  of  that  fatal 
divorce  of  trousers  and  waistcoat. 

"I  was  telling  my  husband,  Lester,  my  manicurist 
just  raved  to-day  about  you  and  Norma  Beautiful 
in  'The  Lure  of  Silk.'" 

"Isn't  that  just  the  sweetest  picture,  moms?" 

"It  certainly  is!  Mr.  Pelz  took  me  down  to  the 
projection-room  to  see  its  first  showing,  and  I  give 
you  my  word  I  said  to  him  and  Sol — didn't  I,  Roody? 

-'That  picture  is  a  fortune.'  And  never  in  my  life 
did  I  fail  to  pick  a  winner — did  I,  Roody?  I  got  a 
knack  for  it.  Mr.  Feist,  have  you  seen  'The  Lure  of 
Silk'?" 

"Sorry  to  say  I  have  not." 

"If  you  think  that  is  a  riot,  Mrs.  Pelz,  you  wait 
until  you  see  the  way  they're  going  to  eat  me  up  in 
the  court  scene  in  'Saint  Elba.'  I  had  the  whole 


HUMORESQUE 

studio  crying  down  there  to-day  —  didn't  I,  Mr. 
Pelz?  Crying  like  babies  over  the  scene  where  I 
stand  like  this — so — overlooking — " 

"Say,  Rosie,  that's  twice  already  Williams  an- 
nounced dinner  is  served." 

"Overlooking  the — " 

"I  hear  Friedman  &  Kaplan  made  an  assignment, 
Feist." 

"Come,  Lester;  you  take  me  in  to  dinner.  Ru- 
dolph, you  go  and  get  mamma.  Bleema,  you  and 
Mr.  Feist  be  escorts." 

In  a  dining-room  so  unswervingly  Jacobean  that 
its  high-back  chairs  formed  an  actual  enclosure  about 
the  glittering,  not  to  say  noble,  oval  of  table,  the 
dinner-hour  moved  through  the  stately  procession  of 
its  courses.  At  its  head,  Mrs.  Miriam  Sopinsky,  dim 
with  years  and  the  kind  of  weariness  of  the  flesh 
that  Rembrandt  knew  so  well,  her  face  even  yellower 
beneath  the  black  wig  with  the  bold  row  of  machine- 
stitching  down  its  center,  the  hands  veiny  and  often 
uncertain  among  the  dishes. 

"Roody,  cut  up  mamma's  chicken  for  her.  She 
trembles  so." 

"Moms,  let  Williams." 

"No;  she  likes  it  when  your  father  does  it." 

Mr.  Pelz  leaned  over,  transferring  his  own  knife 
and  fork.  In  Yiddish: 

"Grandmother,  I  hear  you've  been  flirting  with 
Doctor  Isadore  Aarons.  Now,  don't  you  let  me 
hear  any  more  such  nonsense.  The  young  girls  in 
this  house  got  to  walk  the  straight  line." 

196 


"HEADS' 

The  old  face  broke  still  more  furiously  into  wrinkle, 
the  hand  reaching  out  to  top  his. 

"Don't  tease  her,  Roody;  she  likes  to  be  let  alone 
in  public." 

MR.  FEIST:  The  old  lady  certainly  holds  her 
own,  don't  she?  Honest,  I'd  give  anything  if  I 
knew  how  to  talk  to  her  a  little. 

"No,  Mr.  Feist,  mamma's  breaking.  Every  day 
since  her  stroke  I  can  see  it  more.  It  nearly  kills 
me,  too.  It's  pretty  lonesome  for  her,  up  here  away 
from  all  her  old  friends.  Outside  of  my  husband 
and  Bleema,  not  a  soul  in  the  house  talks  her 
language  except  Sol  and  Etta  when  they  come 
over." 

"She's  my  nice  darling  grandma,"  said  Miss  Pelz, 
suddenly  pirouetting  up  from  her  chair  around  the 
table,  kissing  the  old  lips  lightly  and  then  back  again, 
all  in  a  butterfly  jiffy. 

MRS.  PELZ  (sotto  to  Mr.  Feist):  Ain't  she  the  sweet- 
est thing  with  her  grandmother? 

"Umh!"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  draining  his  wine-glass 
to  the  depth  of  its  stem.  "Mr.  Pelz,  believe  me  if 
the  Atlantic  Ocean  was  made  out  of  this  stuff,  you 
wouldn't  have  to  engage  passage  for  me;  I'd  swim 
across." 

"You  better  learn  how  first,"  said  Mr.  Pelz. 
"You've  cost  me  a  fortune  already  in  dummies  for 
the  water  scenes." 

"It's  a  riot,  Mr.  Pelz,  the  way  they  go  mad  over 
me  in  that  Pelham  Bay  scene  in  'The  Marines  Are 
Coming.'  I  dropped  into  the  Buckingham  to  see  it 
last  night,  and  before  I  knew  it  the  house  had  it  that 

197 


HUMORESQUE 

I  was  present  and  was  going  wild  over  me.  They 
had  to  throw  the  spotlight  on  the  box." 

"I  love  that  scene,  too,  Lester!  Honest,  I  just 
squeeze  up  with  excitement  where  you  stand  there 
at  the  edge  of  the  deck  and  take  the  plunge  into  the 
water  to  rescue  Norma  Beautiful." 

"You  mean  a  super  for  five  a  day  takes  the 
plunge." 

"Tell  you  another  scene  where  I  simply  raise  the 
roof  off  the  house  in — " 

MR.  PELZ  :  Williams,  pass  Mr.  Feist  some  more  of 
them  little  cabbages. 

"Brussels  sprouts,  dad." 

MRS.  PELZ:  I  guess  you  miss  Norma  Beautiful 
not  playing  with  you  in  "Saint  Elba,"  don't  you, 
Lester?  You  and  her  are  so  used  to  playing  with 
each  other. 

"I  was  the  one  first  suggested  she  wouldn't  be  the 
type  to  play  Josephine,  Mrs.  Pelz.  Too  thin.  I've 
got  to  be  contrasted  right  or  it  kills  me — " 

"Williams,  a  little  more  of  that  chicken  stuffing. 
It's  almost  good  enough  to  remind  me  how  you  and 
grandma  used  to  make  it,  Rosie." 

"Speaking  of  'Saint  Elba,'  Mr.  Pelz,  somebody 
must  speak  to  Mabel  Lovely  about  the  way  she  keeps 
hogging  center-stage  in  that  scene  with  me  on — 

"There's  no  center-stage  left  to  hog  with  you  in 
the  picture,  Spencer." 

"She  crowds  me  to  profile.  They  want  me  full- 
face.  If  you'd  put  in  a  word  to  Sol  to  direct  it 
that  way!  Other  night,  at  the  Buckingham,  it  was 
a  riot  every  time  I  turned  full-face.  Just  because 

198 


"HEADS' 

a  fellow  happens  to  have  a  good  profile  is  no  reason 
why—" 

"Well,  Feist,  how  does  the  war  look  to-day?" 

"Ugly,  Pelz,  ugly.  Every  hour  this  country  lets 
pass  with  Belgium  unavenged  she  is  going  to  pay 
up  for  later." 

"It's  not  our  fight,  Mr.  Feist." 

"Maybe  it's  not  our  fight,  Mr.  Spencer,  but  if 
ever  there  was  a  cause  that  is  all  humanity's  fight, 
it  is  those  bleeding  and  murdered  women  and 
children  of  Belgium.  You're  sailing  over  there 
yourself  next  week,  Mr.  Spencer,  and  I  hope  to 
God  you  will  see  for  yourself  how  much  of  our  fight 
it  is." 

"Ain't  things  just  simply  terrible?  Honest,  I  said 
to  Roody,  when  I  picked  up  the  paper  this  morning, 
it  gives  me  the  blues  before  I  open  it." 

' '  Nobody  can  tell  me  that  this  country  is  going  to 
sit  back  much  longer  and  see  autocracy  grind  its  heel 
into  the  face  of  the  world." 

"You're  right,  Feist!  I  think  if  there  is  one 
thing  worse  than  being  too  proud  to  fight,  it  is  not 
being  proud  enough  to  fight." 

"Lester  Spencer,  if  you  don't  stop  making  eyes!" 

"Mr.  Pelz,  every  time  I  drink  to  your  daughter 
only  with  my  eyes  she  slaps  me  on  the  wrist.  You 
put  in  a  good  word  for  me." 

"Little  more  of  that  ice-cream,  Feist?" 

"Thanks,  Pelz;   no." 

"You,  Lester?" 

"Don't  care  if  I  do,  Miss  Bleema  Butterfly." 

Mr.  Pelz  flashed  out  a  watch.     "Don't  want  to 
14  199 


HUMORESQUE 

hurry  you,  Spencer,  but  if  you  have  to  catch  that 
ten-o'clock  train,  by  the  time  you  get  back  and 
change  clothes — " 

"You're  right,  Mr.  Pelz;  I'd  better  be  getting  on." 

Miss  Pelz  danced  to  her  feet.  "  Mamma  and 
papa  will  excuse  us,  Lester,  if  we  leave  before  coffee. 
Come;  I'll  shoot  you  to  the  club." 

"Why,  Bleema!  George  will  bring  the  limousine 
around  and — •" 

"I  promised!  Didn't  I  promise  you,  Lester,  that 
if  you  came  up  to  dinner  I'd  drive  you  back  to  the 
club  myself?" 

"She  sure  did,  Mrs.  Pelz." 

"Bleema,  you  stay  right  here  and  finish  your  sup- 
per. There's  two  chauffeurs  on  the  place  to  drive 
Spencer  around  to  his  club." 

"But,  dad,  I  promised." 

"Why,  Bleema,  ain't  you  ashamed?  Mr.  Feist 
here  for  dinner  and  you  to  run  off  like  that.  Shame 
on  you!" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Mrs.  Pelz.  I'll  stay  around 
and  be  entertained  by  you  and  Mr. — " 

"I'll  be  back  in  twenty  minutes,  moms.  Surely 
you'll  excuse  me  that  long!  I  want  to  drive  him 
down  in  my  new  runabout.  I  promised.  Please, 
moms!  Dad?" 

"Ask  your  papa,  Bleema;  I — I  don't  know — " 

"Dad?" 

"You  heard  what  I  said,  Bleema.     No!" 

A  quick  film  of  tears  formed  over  Miss  Pelz's  eyes, 
her  lips  quivering.  "Oh,  well — if — if  you're  going 
to  be  that  mean — oh,  you  make  me  so  mad —  Come 

200 


'HEADS' 

on,  Lester — I — I  guess  I  can  take  you  as  far  as  the 
front  door  without  the  whole  world  jumping  on  me. 
Oh — oh — you  make  me  so  mad!"  And  pranced  out 
on  slim  feet  of  high  dudgeon. 

"Poor  child!" -said  Mrs.  Pelz,  stirring  into  her 
coffee.  "She's  so  high  strung." 

"She's  got  to  quit  wasting  her  time  on  that  con- 
ceited jackass,"  said  Mr.  Pelz,  swallowing  off  his 
demi-tasse  at  a  gulp.  "Won't  have  it!" 

"It  makes  her  papa  mad  the  way  the  boys  just 
kill  themselves  over  that  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Pelz,  arch 
of  glance  toward  Mr.  Feist,  who  was  stirring  also, 
his  eyes  lowered. 

"Me,  too,"  he  said,  softly. 

"Jealous!"  flashed  Mrs.  Pelz. 

After  an  interval,  and  only  upon  despatching  a 
servant,  Miss  Pelz  returned,  the  tears  frank  streaks 
now  down  her  cheeks. 

"Sit  down,  baby,  and  drink  your  coffee." 

"Don't  want  any." 

"Williams,  bring  Miss  Bleema  some  hot  coffee." 

"I'm  finished,  mother — please!" 

"I  was  telling  Mr.  Feist  a  while  ago,  Bleema,  about 
your  ambition  to  be  a  writer,  not  for  money,  but 
just  for  the  pleasure  in  it.  What  is  it  you  call  such 
writing  in  your  French,  honey?  Dilytanty?" 

"Please,  mamma,  Mr.  Feist  isn't  interested." 

"Indeed  I  am,  Miss  Bleema!  More  interested 
than  in  anything  I  know  of." 

"She's  mad  at  her  papa,  Feist,  and  when  my  little 
girl  gets  mad  at  her  papa  there's  nothing  for  him  to 
do  but  apologize  with  a  big  kiss," 

291 


HUMORESQUE 

Suddenly  Miss  Pelz  burst  into  tears,  a  hot  cascade 
of  them  that  flowed  down  over  her  prettiness. 

"Why,  Bleema!" 

"Now,  now,  papa's  girl — " 

The  grandmother  made~a  quick  gesture  of  up- 
lifted hands,  leaning  over  toward  her,  and  Miss 
Pelz  hiding  her  face  against  that  haven  of  shrunken 
old  bosom. 

"Oh,  grandma,  make  'em  let  me  alone!" 

"Why,  Bleema  darling,  I'm  surprised!  Ain't  you 
ashamed  to  act  this  way  in  front  of  Mr.  Feist? 
What  '11  he  think?" 

"Please,  Mrs.  Pelz,  don't  mind  me;  she's  a  little 
upset — that's  all." 

"You — you  made  me  look  like — like  thirty  cents 
before  Lester  Spencer — that — that's  what  you  did." 

"Why,  Bleema,  do  you  think  that  if  papa  thought 
that  Lester  Spencer  was  worth  bothering  that  pretty 
red  head  of  yours  about  that  he  would— 

"There  you  go  again!  Always  picking  on  Lester. 
If  you  want  to  know  it,  next  to  Norma  Beautiful  and 
Allan  Hunt  he's  the  biggest  money-maker  your  old 
corporation  has  got." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  you?" 

"And  he'll  be  passing  them  all  in  a  year  or  two, 
you  see  if  he  don't — if — if — if  only  you'd  stop  picking 
on  him  and  letting  Uncle  Sol  crowd  him  out  of  the 
pictures  and  everybody  in  the  company  take  ad- 
vantage of  him — he — he's  grand — he — " 

"He's  a  grand  conceited  fool.  If  not  for  the 
silly  matinee  women  in  the  world  he  couldn't  make 
salt." 

202 


"HEADS' 

"That  shows  all  you  know  about  him,  papa! 
He's  got  big  ideals,  Lester  has.  He  got  plans  up  his 
sleeve  for  making  over  the  moving-picture  business 
from  the  silly  films  they  show  nowadays  to — " 

"Yes — to  something  where  no  one  gets  a  look-in 
except  Lester  Spencer.  They're  looking  for  his  kind 
to  run  the  picture  business!" 

"Roody — Bleema — please!  Just  look  at  poor 
grandma!  Mr.  Feist,  I  must  apologize." 

"He's  a  nix,  an  empty-headed — " 

"He  is — is  he?  Well,  then — well,  then — since  you 
force  me  to  it — right  here  in  front  of  Mr.  Feist 
—Lester  Spencer  and  I  got  engaged  to-day!  He's 
the  only  man  in  my  life.  We're  going  to  be  married 
right  off,  in  time  for  me  to  sail  for  France  with  the 
company.  He's  going  to  talk  to  you  when  he  gets 
back  from  Horseshoe  Bend.  We're  engaged !  That's 
how  much  I  think  of  Lester  Spencer.  That's  how 
much  I  know  he's  the  finest  man  in  the  world. 
Now  then!  Now  then!" 

There  was  a  note  in  Miss  Pelz's  voice  that,  in  the 
ensuing  silence,  seemed  actually  to  ring  against 
the  frail  crystal.  She  was  on  her  feet,  head  up,  tears 
drying. 

"Blee-Bleema!" 

"Moms  darling,  aren't  you  happy?  Isn't  it  won- 
derful— moms  ?" 

"Roody!  For  God's  sake,  Bleema,  you're  choking 
your  father  to  death!  Roody,  for  God's  sake,  don't 
get  so  red !  Williams — some  water — quick !  Roody !" 

"I'm  all  right.  All  right,  I  tell  you.  She  got  me 
excited.  Sit  down,  Bleema — sit  down,  I  said." 

203 


HUMORESQUE 

"Pelz,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  maybe  I'd 
better  be  going." 

"You  stay  right  here,  Feist.  I  want  you  to  hear 
every  word  that  I'm  going  to  say.  If  my  daughter 
has  no  shame,  I  haven't,  either.  Williams,  call  Mrs. 
Sopinsky's  maid,  and  see  that  she  gets  to  her  room 
comfortable.  Sit  down,  Bleema!" 

"My  God! — I  can't  believe  my  ears — Bleema  and 
such  a  goy  play-actor — " 

"Please,  Rosie!" 

"A  goy  that— " 

"Rosie,  I  said,  'Please!'  Bleema,  did  you  hear 
me?  Sit  down!" 

Miss  Pelz  sat  then,  gingerly  on  the  chair-edge,  her 
young  lips  straight.  "Well?" 

Her  father  crunched  into  his  stiff  damask  napkin, 
holding  a  fistful  of  it  tense  against  bringing  it  down 
in  a  china-shivering  bang.  Then,  with  carefully 
spaced  words,  "If  I  didn't  think,  Bleema,  that  you 
are  crazy  for  the  moment,  infatuated  with — " 

"I'm  not  infatuated!" 

"Bleema,  Bleema,  don't  talk  to  your  father  so 
ugly!" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  my  own  mind.  I  guess  I 
know  when  I'm  in  love  with  the  finest,  darlingest 
fellow  that  ever — " 

"You  hush  that,  Bleema!  Hush  that,  while  I  can 
hold  myself  in.  That  I  should  live  to  hear  my 
child  make  herself  common  over  a  loafer — " 

"Papa,  if  you  call  him  another  name,  I — I — " 

"You'll  sit  right  here  and  hear  me  out.  If  you 
think  you're  going  to  let  this  loafer  ruin  your  own 

204 


"HEADS' 

life  and  the  lives  of  your  parents  and  poor  grand- 
mother— " 

"Papa,  papa,  you  don't  know  him!  The  com- 
pany are  all  down  on  him  because  they're  jealous. 
Lester  Spencer  comes  from  one  of  the  finest  old 
Southern  families — " 

"Roody,  Roody,  a  goy  play-actor — " 
'  'A  goy  play-actor'!  I  notice,  mamma,  you  are  the 
one  always  likes  to  brag  when  the  girls  and  fellows 
like  Norma  Beautiful  and  Allan  Hunt  and  Lester 
and — and  all  come  up  to  the  house.  It's  the  biggest 
feather  in  your  cap  the  way  on  account  of  papa  the 
big  names  got  to  come  running  when  you  invite 
them." 

"Your  mother's  little  nonsenses  have  got  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

"She  reproaches  me  with  having  brought  about 
this  goy  mix-up !  Me  that  has  planned  each  hour  of 
that  girl's  life  like  each  one  was  a  flower  in  a  garden. 
A  young  man,  a  grand  young  man  like  Mr.  Feist, 
crazy  in  lo — " 

"Mrs.  Pelz,  for  God's  sake!    Mrs.  Pelz,  please!" 

"Rosie,  we'll  leave  Feist  out  of  this." 

"Lester  Spencer,  papa,  is  one  of  the  finest  char- 
acters, if  only  you — " 

"I  ask  you  again,  Bleema,  to  cut  out  such  talk 
while  I  got  the  strength  left  to  hold  in.  It's  a  nail 
in  my  coffin  I  should  live  to  talk  such  talk  to  my 
little  daughter,  but  it's  got  to  where  I've  got  to 
say  it.  Lester  Spencer  and  the  fine  character  you 
talk  about — it's  free  gossip  in  all  the  studios — is  one 
of  the  biggest  low-lifes  in  the  picture-world.  He 

205 


HUMORESQUE 

has  a  reputation  with  the  women  that  I'm  ashamed 
to  mention  even  before  your  mother,  much  less  her 
daughter — " 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean!  Oh,  you're  like 
all  the  rest — down  on  him.  You  mean  that  silly 
talk  about  him  and  Norma  Beautiful — " 

"Oh  my  God,  Roody,  listen  to  her!" 

"I  can  clear  that  up  in  a  minute.  He  never  cared 
a  thing  for  her.  It  was  just  their  always  playing  in 
the  same  pictures,  and  that  silly  matinee  public, 
first  thing  he  knew,  got  to  linking  their  names 
together." 

"Bleema — for  God's  sake — baby — what  do  you 
know  about  such?" 

"Bleema,  you're  killing  your  mother!  Your 
mother  that  used  to  rock  you  in  your  cradle  while 
she  stitched  on  the  machine  to  buy  you  more  com- 
forts— a  mother  that — " 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  to  begin  that!" 

"Your  poor  old  grandmother  —  don't  she  mean 
nothing?  You  saw  how  she  looked  just  now  when 
they  took  her  out,  even  before  she  knows  what  it's 
all  about — " 

"I  hope  she  never  has  a  worse  trouble  than  for 
me  to  marry  the  best- 
Then  Mr.  Pelz  came  down  with  crashing  fist  that 
shattered  an  opalescent  wine-glass  and  sent  a  great 
stain  sprawling  over  the  cloth. 

' ' By  God,  I'll  kill  him  first !    The  dirty  hou— " 

"Pelz,  for  God's  sake,  control  yourself!" 

'Til  kill  him,  I  tell  you,  Feist!" 

"Roody!" 

206 


'HEADS' 

"You  can't  scare  me  that  way,  dad.  I'm  no  baby 
to  be  hollered  at  like  that.  I  love  Lester  Spencer, 
and  I'm  going  to  marry  him!" 

"I'll  kill  him;   I'll—" 

"Roody,  Roody,  for  God's  sake!  'Sh-h-h,  the 
servants!  Williams,  close  quick  all  the  doors. 
Roody,  for  my  sake,  if  not  your  child's!  Mr.  Feist, 
please — please  make  him,  Mr.  Feist!" 

"Pelz,  for  God's  sake,  man,  get  yourself  together! 
Excitement  won't  get  you  anywheres.  Calm  down. 
Be  human." 

Then  Mr.  Pelz  sat  down  again,  but  trembling 
and  swallowing  back  with  difficulty.  "She  got  me 
wild,  Feist.  You  must  excuse  me.  She  got  me  wild 
— my  little  girl — my  little  flower — " 

"Papa — dad  darling!  Don't  you  think  it  kills 
me,  too,  to  see  you  like  this?  My  own  darling  papa 
that's  so  terribly  good.  My  own  darling  sweet 
mamma.  Can't  you  see,  darlings,  a  girl  can't  help 
it  when — when — life  just  takes  hold  of  her?  I  swear 
to  you — I  promise  you  that,  when  you  come  to 
know  Lester  as  I  know  him  you'll  think  him  as  fine 
and — and  gorgeous  as  I  do.  Mamma,  do  you  think 
your  little  Bleema  would  marry  a  man  who  doesn't 
just  love  you,  and  dad,  too?  It  isn't  like  Lester  is 
a  nobody — a  high-salaried  fellow  like  him  with  a 
future.  Why,  the  best  will  be  none  too  good! 
He  loves  you  both — told  me  so  to-day.  The  one 
aim  in  his  life  is  to  do  big  things,  to  make  you  both 
proud,  to  make  his  name  the  biggest — " 

"Feist — Feist — can't  you  talk  to  her?  Tell  her 
it's  madness — tell  her  she's  ruining  herself." 

207 


HUMORESQUE 

"Why,  Miss  Bleema,  there's  nothing  much  a — a 
stranger  like  me  can  say  at  a  time  like  this.  It's  only 
unfortunate  that  I  happened  to  be  here.  If  I  were 
you,  though,  I  think  I'd  take  a  little  time  to  think 
this  over.  Sometimes  a  young  girl — " 

"I  have  thought  it  over,  Mr.  Feist.  For  weeks 
and  weeks  I've  thought  of  nothing  else.  That's 
how  sure  I  am — so  terribly  sure." 

"I  won't  have  it,  I  tell  you!     I'll  wring  his — " 

"'Sh-h-h,  Pelz.  If  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll 
handle  this  thing  without  threats.  Why  not,  Miss 
Bleema,  even  if  you  do  feel  so  sure,  give  yourself  a 
little  more  time  to — " 

"No!    No!    No!" 

"Just  a  minute  now.  If  you  feel  this  way  so 
strongly  to-night,  isn't  it  just  possible  that  to- 
morrow, when  you  wake  up,  you  may  see  things 
differently?" 

"I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  France  with  him — on  our 
honeymoon.  It's  all  fixed  if — moms — dad — won't 
you  please — darlings — can't  you  see — my  happi- 
ness— " 

"O  God,  Roody,  were  ever  parents  in  such  a  fix?" 

"Listen  to  me,  Miss  Bleema,  now:  I'm  an  old 
friend  of  the  family,  and  you  don't  need  to  take 
exception  to  what  I'm  going  to  suggest.  If  your 
heart  is  so  set  on  this  thing,  all  right  then,  make 
up  your  mind  it's  an  engagement  and — " 

"By  God,  Feist,  no!" 

"Wait,  Pelz,  I  tell  you  you're  making  a  mistake 
with  your  state  of  excitement." 

"Let  Mr.  Feist  talk,  Roody." 
208 


'HEADS' 

"Make  up  your  mind  as  I  was  saying,  Miss 
Bleema,  that  this  engagement  exists  between  you 
and — and  this  young  man.  Then,  instead  of  doing 
the  hasty  thing  and  marrying  next  week,  you 
remain  here  a  happy,  engaged  girl  until  the  company 
returns  in  three  weeks,  and  meanwhile  you  will 
have  time  to  know  your  own  mind  and — " 

"No!  No!  No!  I  do  know  it!  It's  all  fixed 
we're—" 

"That's  a  fine  idea  of  Mr.  Feist's,  Bleema  darling. 
For  mamma's  sake,  baby.  For  grandma's.  If  it's 
got  to  be  an  engagement,  hold  it  until  after  he  gets 
back.  Don't  go  rushing  in.  Take  time  to  think 
a  little.  France  is  no  place  for  a  honeymoon  now — 
submarines  and  all." 

"Oh,  I  know!  You  hope  he'll  get  sunk  with  a 
submarine." 

"Shame,  Miss  Bleema;   shame!" 

"All  mamma  means,  darling,  is  take  a  little  time 
and  get  a — a  trousseau  like  a  girl  like  you  has  to 
have.  If  your  heart  is  so  set  on  it,  can't  you  do 
that  much  to  please  mamma?  That  much?" 

"There's  a  trick.  You  want  me  to  wait  and 
then—" 

"Miss  Bleema,  is  my  promise  to  you  enough  that 
there's  no  trick?  On  my  respect  for  your  parents 
and  grandmother,  there's  no  trick.  If  it  is  only  to 
please  them,  wait  those  few  weeks  and  do  it  more 
dignified.  If  it's  got  to  be,  then  it's  got  to  be.  Am 
I  right,  Pelz?" 

Mr.  Pelz  turned  away,  nodding  his  head,  but  with 
lips  too  wry  to  speak. 

209 


HUMORESQUE 

"O  my  God,  yes!  Mr.  Feist,  you're  right. 
Bleema,  promise  us!  Promise!" 

"Just  a  matter  of  a  few  weeks  more  or  less,  Miss 
Bleema.  Just  so  your  parents  are  satisfied  you 
know  your  own  mind." 

"I  do!" 

"Then,  I  say,  if  you  still  feel  as  you  do,  not  even 
they  have  the  right  to  interfere." 

"Promise  us,  Bleema;   promise  us  that!" 

"I — I'll  be  engaged  on  your  word  of  honor — with- 
out any  fussing  about  it?" 

"An  engaged  girl,  Miss  Bleema,  like  any  other 
engaged  girl." 

"But  dad — look  at  him — he  won't — p-promise," 
trembling  into  tears. 

"Of  course  he  will — won't  you,  Pelz?  And  you 
know  the  reputation  your  father  has  for  a  man  of  his 
word." 

"Will— will  he  promise?" 

"You  do;  don't  you,  Pelz?" 

Again  the  nod  from  the  bitter  inverted  features. 

"Now,  Miss  Bleema?" 

"Well  then,  I— I— p-promise." 

On  a  May-day  morning  that  was  a  kiss  to  the 
cheek  and  even  ingratiated  itself  into  the  bale- 
smelling,  truck-rumbling  pier-shed,  Mr.  Lester  Spen- 
cer, caparisoned  for  high  seas  by  Fifth  Avenue's 
highest  haberdasher,  stood  off  in  a  little  cove  of 
bags  and  baggage,  yachting-cap  well  down  over  his 
eyes,  the  nattiest  thing  in  nautical  ulsters  buttoned 
to  the  chin.  Beside  him,  Miss  Norma  Beautiful, 

210 


'HEADS' 

her  small-featured  pink-and-whiteness  even  smaller 
and  pinker  from  the  depths  of  a  great  cart-wheel  of 
rose-colored  hat,  completely  swathed  in  rose-colored 
veiling. 

"For  a  snap  of  my  finger  I'd  spill  the  beans — that's 
how  stuck  on  this  situation  I  am!" 

Mr.  Spencer  plunged  emphatic  arms  into  large 
patch-pockets,  his  chin  projecting  beyond  the  muffle 
of  collar. 

"Just  you  try  it  and  see  where  it  lands  you!" 

Then  Miss  Beautiful  from  the  rosy  depths  of 
hat  began  to  quiver  of  voice,  jerky  little  sobs  catching 
her  up. 

"I  can't  stand  it!  I  b-bit  off  a  b-bigger  piece 
than  I  can  swallow." 

"Now,  Darling  Beautiful,  I  ask  you  would  your 
own  Lester  do  anything  that  wasn't  just  going  to  be 
the  making  of  his  girl  as  well  as  himself?  Is  it  any- 
thing, Angel  Beautiful,  he  is  asking  you  to  do  except 
wait  until — " 

"I  can't  bear  it,  I  tell  you!  A  little  red-haired 
kike  like  her!  How  do  I  know  what  I'm  letting 
myself  in  for?  There's  only  one  ground  for  divorce 
in  this  state.  What  guarantee  have  I  you'll  get 
free  on  it?" 

"My  guarantee,  Pussy.  You're  letting  yourself 
in  for  a  pink  limousine  to  match  that  pink  sweetness 
of  yours  and  a  jumping-rope  of  pearls  to  match 
those  sweet  teeth  of  yours  and — " 

"I  want  black  pearls,  Lester,  like  Lucille  Du 
Font's." 

"Black,  then.  Why,  Angel  Beautiful,  you  just 
211 


HUMORESQUE 

know  that  there's  not  a  hair  on  any  head  in  the 
world,  much  less  a  red  one,  I'd  change  for  one  of 
my  girl's  golden  ones.  You  think  I'd  ever  have 
known  the  little  Reddie  was  on  earth  if  she  hadn't 
just  flung  herself  at  my  head !  She  could  have  been 
six  Rudolph  Pelz's  daughters,  and  I  wouldn't  have 
had  eyes  for  her." 

"But,  Lester — she — she's  right  cute.  What  guar- 
antee have  I  got?" 

"Cross  my  heart  and  swear  to  die,  Angel !  Haven't 
I  already  sworn  it  to  you  a  thousand  thousand  times  ? 
You  wouldn't  want  me  to  close  my  eyes  to  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime  —  you  know  you  wouldn't, 
Beautiful,  when  it's  your  chance  as  much  as  mine. 
Both  ours!" 

"I — if  only  it  was — over,  Lester — all — over!" 

"What's  three  weeks,  Angel  Beautiful?  The  very 
day  I'm  back  I'll  pull  the  trick  with  the  little  red 
head,  and  then  I'm  for  letting  things  happen  quick." 

"And  me,  what  '11  I- 

"I'm  going  to  move  you  into  the  solid-goldest 
hotel  suite  in  this  here  town,  Pussy.  I'm  going  to 
form  the  Norma  Beautiful  Film  Corporation  in  my 
own  girl's  name,  the  first  pop  out  of  the  box.  Why, 
there's  just  nowhere  Rudolph  Pelz's  son-in-law  can't 
get  his  girl  in  the  little  while  I'm  going  to  stick." 

"How  do  I  know?  How  do  I  know  they  won't 
find  a  way  to  hold  you?" 

"Why,  Darling  Beautiful,  when  they're  through 
with  me,  they'll  pay  me  off  in  my  weight  in  gold. 
Haven't  you  said  things  often  enough  about  your 
boy's  temper  when  he  lets  it  fly?  You  think  they're 

313 


'HEADS' 

going  to  let  me  cut  up  nonsense  with  that  little 
Reddie  of  theirs?  Why,  that  old  man  would  pay 
with  his  right  eye  to  protect  her!" 

"O  God,  it's  rotten — a  nice  fellow  like  Pelz — a — " 

"It's  done  every  day,  Gorgeous  Beautiful.  Any- 
way, there's  no  way  to  really  hurt  the  rich.  Look 
at  Warren  Norton — the  Talcott  family  paid  Warren 
two  hundred  cool  thousand  to  give  her  back  quietly. 
It's  done  every  day,  Gorgeousness.  Many  a  fellow 
like  me  has  gotten  himself  roped  into  a  thing  he 
wanted  to  get  out  of  quietly.  That  little  girl  lassoed 
me.  I  should  have  eyes  for  a  little  Reddie  like  her 
with  the  Deep-Sea  Pearl  of  the  world  my  very  own. 
I'm  going  to  marry  you,  too,  Gorgeousness.  I'm 
going  to  see  you  right  through,  this  time.  Jump 
right  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  hottest,  sweetest 
fire!" 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it!  Promising  to  marry 
me  with  another  one  to  see  through  before  you  get 
to  me.  It — it's  terrible!  I — " 

"There  you  go  again !  The  Norma  Beautiful  Film 
Corporation  doesn't  tickle  my  pink  rose  on  the  ear- 
drums! She  doesn't  want  it!  Wouldn't  have  it!" 

"I  do,  Lester;  I  do — 'Only — -only — I — the  little 
Reddie — it's  not  right.  She's  a  sweet  little  thing. 
I'm  afraid,  Lester — I  think  I  must  be  going  crazy! 
I  wish  to  God  I  could  hate  you  the  way  you  ought 
to  be  hated.  I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it.  You 
sailing  off  like  this.  The  coming  back — her — I'll 
kill  myself  during  the  ceremony.  I — " 

"You  create  a  scene  down  here  and  you'll  be 
sorry!" 

213 


HUMORESQUE 

' '  Lester — please !' ' 

"They'll  be  here  any  minute  now.  They're  late 
as  it  is.  Look  —  everybody's  on  board  already! 
One  more  blast,  and  I'll  have  to  go,  too.  You  just 
kick  up  nasty  at  the  last  minute  and  watch  me!" 

"I  won't,  Lester;  I  won't!  I  swear  to  God! 
Only,  be  good  to  me;  be  sweet  to  me,  darling! 
Say  good-by  before  they — she  comes.  I'm  all  right, 
darling.  Please — please — " 

He  caught  her  to  him  then,  and  back  in  the 
sheltering  cove  of  baggage  thrust  back  her  head, 
kissing  deep  into  the  veiling. 

"Beautiful!    Angel  Beautiful!" 

"Swear  to  me,  Lester,  you'll  see  me  through." 

"I  swear,  Beautiful." 

"Swear  to  me,  or  hope  to  die  and  lose  your  luck!" 

He  kissed  her  again  so  that  her  hat  tilted  backward, 
straining  at  its  pins. 

"Hope  to  die  and  lose  my  luck." 

"My  own  preciousness!"  she  said,  her  eyes  tear- 
glazed  and  yearning  up  into  his. 

"'Sh-h,  Pussy;  here  conies  Sol  Sopinsky  to  hurry 
me  on  board.  Funny  the  Pelz  crowd  don't  show  up. 
Quit  it!  Here  they  come!  That's  their  car.  Cut 
it— quick!" 

With  noiselessly  thrown  clutch,  the  Pelz  limousine 
drew  up  between  an  aisle  of  bales,  its  door  imme- 
diately flung  open.  First,  Mr.  Pelz  emerging,  with 
an  immediate  arm  held  back  for  Mrs.  Pelz.  Last, 
Miss  Pelz,  a  delightful  paradox  of  sheer  summer  silk 
and  white-fox  furs,  her  small  face  flushed  and  care- 
fully powdered  up  about  the  eyes. 

214 


'HEADS' 

"There  he  is,  dad!  Over  there  with  Norma  and 
Uncle  Sol!" 

"Don't  run  so,  Bleema;  he'll  come  over  to  you." 

But  she  was  around  and  through  the  archipelago 
of  baggage. 

"Lester  darling!  There  was  a  tie-up  at  Thirty- 
third  Street.  I  thought  I'd  die!  Here's  a  little 
package  of  letters,  love,  one  for  each  day  on  the 
steamer.  Lester,  have  you  got  everything — are  you 
all  ready  to  leave  your  girlie —  Hello,  Norma — Uncle 
Sol!  Lester  are  you — you  sorry  to  leave  you — 
your — " 

"Now,  now — no  water- works !" 

"My  all!  My  own  boy!"  She  drew  him,  to  hide 
the  quickening  trembling  of  her  lips,  back  behind 
the  shelter  of  piled  baggage. 

"Lester  darling — I — I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  all 
night!  I — I'm  so  nervous,  dear.  What  if  a  sub- 
marine should  catch  you?  What  if  you  meet  a 
French  girl  and  fall  in — " 

"Now,  now,  Reddie!  Is  that  what  you  think  of 
your  boy?" 

"I  don't,  dearest;  I  don't!  I  keep  telling  myself 
I'm  a  silly —  What's  three  weeks?  But  when  it 
means  separation  from  the  sweetest,  dearest — " 

'"Sh-h-h,  Angel  darling!  There's  the  last  blast, 
and  your  father's  angry.  See  him  beckoning!  The 
company's  been  on  board  twenty  minutes  already. 
Look — there's  the  sailors  lined  up  at  the  gang- 
plank— Bleema — 

"Promise  me,  Lester — " 

"I  do!  I  do  promise!  Anything!  Look,  girlie: 
15  215 


HUMORESQUE 

Miss  Beautiful  will  feel  hurt  the  way  we  left  her 
standing.  It  isn't  nice — our  hiding  this  way." 

"I  can't  bear,  dearest,  to  see  you  go — 

•"Look!  See — there's  David  Feist  come  down, 
too.  You  don't  want  him  to  see  my  girl  make  a 
cry  baby  of  herself  over  a  three  weeks'  trip — 

"You'll  write,  Lester,  and  cable  every  day?" 

"You  just  know  I  will!" 

"You  won't  go  near  the  war?" 

"You  just  know  I  won't!" 

"You—" 

"Your  father,  Bleema — let's  not  get  him  sore, 
hiding  back  here.  Come ;  they'll  draw  up  the  plank 
on  me." 

"I'll  be  waving  out  from  the  edge  of  the  pier, 
darling.  I've  got  a  special  permit  to  go  out  there. 
I  just  couldn't  stand  not  seeing  my  boy  up  to  the 
last  second.  It's  terrible  for  you  to  sneak  off  on  a 
boat  like  this,  darling,  without  flags  and  music  the 
way  it  was  before  the  war.  I  want  music  and  flags 
when  my  boy  goes  off.  Oh,  Lester,  I'll  be  working 
so  hard  on  the  sweetest  little  trousseau  and  the 
sweetest  little — " 

"Bleema,  please!  There's  Miss  Beautiful  over- 
hearing every  word.  Please!"  "Well,  good-by, 
Miss  Beautiful;  don't  walk  off  with  the  studio 
while  we're  gone — take  care  of  yourself — 

"Good-by — Mr.  Spencer — b-bon  voyage!'' 

"Hi,  Mr.  Feist,  mighty  handsome  of  you  to  come 
down  to  see  me  off!" 

"Safe  journey,  Spencer!  Remember  you've  got  a 
precious  piece  of  anxiety  waiting  back  here  for  you." 

216 


'HEADS' 

"Oh,  Mr.  Feist — isn't — isn't — it  awful — subma- 
rine-time and  all?  I — I  just  can't  bear  it!" 

4 '  Now !  Now !  Is  that  the  way  for  a  brave  little 
girl  to  talk?" 

"Bleema,  if  you  can't  control  yourself,  you  had 
better  go  sit  in  the  car.  I'm  ashamed  before  the 
company." 

"Roody,  the  poor  child!" 

"He — that's  the  only  way  papa  talks  to  me  these 
days — fault-finding !" 

"Now,  now,  Miss  Bleema!  Here — take  mine; 
yours  is  all  wet." 

Another  blast  then,  reverberating  into  the  din. 

"All  aboard!" 

"Good-by,  Lester — good-by,  darling — cable  every 
day — by — good-by — boy !" 

' '  Good-by,  little  Reddie !  Thanks  for  the  beautiful 
fruits  and  letters.  Good-by,  Mr.  Pelz!" 

"Play  fair  in  the  picture,  Spencer.  Don't  hog 
the  scenes.  Help  instead  of  hinder  Sopinsky." 

"Indeed  I  will,  sir!     Good-by,  Mrs.  Pelz!" 

"Good-by,  Lester!  God  bless  you,  my  boy! 
Take  care  of  yourself,  and  remember  my  little  girl 
is—" 

"Lester — Lester,  a  cable  every  day!" 

"  Bleema,  will  you  please  let  the  man  catch  his 
boat?  It's  an  embarrassment  to  even  watch  you." 

"Lester— Lester— " 

"Yes,  yes;  good-by,  everybody!" 

"I'll  be  out  at  the  pier-edge — wave  back,  dar- 
ling!" 

"Yes,  yes!  Good-by,  Miss  Beautiful!  By,  all!" 
217 


HUMORESQUE 

And  then,   from  an  upper  deck,   more  and  more 
shouted  farewells. 

"They're  moving!  Come,  Mr.  Feist — please — 
with  me — I've  got  the  permit — don't  let  papa  see 
us — come — the  pier-edge!" 

"Sure!  This  way,  Miss  Bleema — here — under — 
quick!" 

Out  in  the  open,  May  lay  with  Italian  warmth 
over  a  harbor  that  kicked  up  the  tiniest  of  frills. 
A  gull  cut  through  the  blueness,  winging  it  in 
festoons. 

"Over  this  way,  Miss  Bleema;  we  can  see  her 
steaming  out." 

"Lester — good-by — Lester — a  cable  every  day! 
I'll  be  waiting.  Good-by!" 

All  this  unavailingly  flung  to  the  great  hulk  of 
boat  moving  so  proud  of  bow  and  so  grandly  out  to 
sea,  decks  of  faces  and  waving  kerchiefs  receding 
quickly. 

' '  Good-by — darling — oh — oh — " 

"'Sh-h — 'sh-h-h,  Miss  Bleema.  Here — take  an- 
other of  mine.  Yours  is  all  wet  again.  My — 
what  a  rainy  day!  Here — let  me  dry  them  for  you. 
Hold  still!" 

"Oh — oh — cable  every  day,  darling — write — oh^ 
Mr.  Feist — he  don't  see  us — he's  out  of  sight — don't 
wipe  'em  so  hard,  Mr.  Feist — you — you  h-hurt!" 

Out  toward  the  blue,  the  billowing  fields  sailed 
away  the  gray  steamer,  cutting  a  path  that  sprayed 
and  sang  after.  Sunlight  danced  and  lay  whitely 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  It  prolonged  for  those 
on  shore  the  contour  of  the  line  of  faces  above  each 

218 


'HEADS' 

deck;  it  picked  points  of  light  from  off  everywhere 
— off  smokestacks  and  polished  railings,  off  plate- 
glass  and  brass-bound  port-holes  and  even  down 
the  ship's  flank,  to  where  gilt  letters  spelled  out 
shiningly : 
"LUSITANIA." 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

HOW  difficult  it  is  to  think  of  great  lives  in  terms 
of  the  small  mosaics  that  go  to  make  up  the 
pattern  of  every  man's  day-by-day — the  too  tepid 
shaving-water;  the  badly  laundered  shirt-front;  the 
three-minute  egg;  the  too-short  fourth  leg  of  the 
table;  the  draught  on  the  neck;  the  bad  pen;  the 
neighboring  rooster;  the  misplaced  key ;  the  slipping 
chest-protector. 

Richelieu,  who  walked  with  kings,  presided  always 
at  the  stitching  of  his  red  robes.  Boswell  says  some- 
where that  a  badly  starched  stock  could  kill  his 
Johnson's  morning.  It  was  the  hanging  of  his  own 
chintzes  that  first  swayed  William  Morris  from  epic 
mood  to  household  utensils.  Seneca,  first  in  Latin 
in  the  whole  Silver  Age,  prepared  his  own  vegetables. 
There  is  no  outgrowing  the  small  moments  of  life, 
and  to  those  lesser  ones  of  us  how  often  they  become 
the  large  ones ! 

To  Samuel  Lipkind,  who,  in  a  span  of  thirty  years, 
had  created  and  carried  probably  more  than  his 
share  of  this  world's  responsibilities,  there  was  no 
more  predominant  moment  in  all  his  day,  even  to 
the  signing  of  checks  and  the  six-o'clock  making  of 
cash,  than  that  matinal  instant,  just  fifteen  minutes 

220 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

before  the  stroke  of  seven,  when  Mrs.  Lipkind,  in  a 
fuzzy  gray  wrapper  the  color  of  her  eyes  and  hair, 
kissed  him  awake,  and,  from  across  the  hall,  he 
could  hear  the  harsh  sing  of  his  bath  in  the 
drawing. 

There  are  moments  like  that  which  never  grow  old. 
For  the  fifteen  years  that  Samuel  Lipkind  had 
reached  the  Two  Dollar  Hat  Store  before  his  two 
clerks,  he  had  awakened  to  that  same  kiss  on  his 
slightly  open  mouth,  the  gray  hair  and  the  ever- 
graying  eyes  close  enough  to  be  stroked,  the  pungency 
of  coffee  seeming  to  wind  like  wreaths  of  mundane 
aroma  above  the  bed,  and  always  across  the  aisle 
of  hallway  that  tepid  cataract  leaping  in  glory  into 
porcelain. 

Take  the  particular  morning  which  ushers  in  our 
story,  although  it  might  have  been  any  of  twelve 
times  three  hundred  others. 

"Sammy!"  This  upon  opening  his  door,  then 
crossing  to  close  the  conservative  five  inches  of  open 
window  and  over  to  the  bedside  for  the  kissing  him 
awake.  "Sammy,  get  up!" 

The  snuggle  away  into  the  crotch  of  his  elbow. 

1 '  Sammy !  77m,  thu!  I  can't  get  him  up !  Sammy, 
a  quarter  to  seven!  You  want  to  be  late?  I  can't 
get  him  up!" 

' '  M-m-m-m-m-m !' ' 

"You  want  your  own  clerks  to  beat  you  to  business 
so  they  can  say  they  got  a  lazy  boss?" 

"I'm  awake,  ma."  Reaching  up  to  stroke  her 
hair,  thin  and  gray  now,  and  drawn  back  into  an 
early-morning  knob. 

221 


HUMORESQUE 

"Don't  splash  in  the  bath-room  so  this  morning, 
Sammy;  it's  a  shame  for  the  wall-paper." 

"I  won't" — drawing  the  cord  of  his  robe  about  his 
waist,  and  as  if  they  did  not  both  of  them  know 
just  how  faithfully  disregarded  would  be  that  daily 
admonition. 

Then  Mrs.  Lipkind  flung  back  the  snowy  sheets 
and  bed-coverings,  baring  the  striped  ticking  of  the 
mattress. 

"Hurry,  Sammy!  I'm  up  so  long  I'm  ready  for 
my  second  cup  of  coffee." 

"Two  minutes."  And  off  across  the  hall,  whis- 
tling, towel  across  arm. 

It  was  that  little  early  moment  sublimated  by 
nothing  more  than  the  fusty  beginnings  of  a  work- 
aday, the  mere  recollecting  of  which  was  one  day  to 
bring  a  wash  of  tears  behind  his  eyes  and  a  twist  of 
anguish  into  his  heart. 

Next  breakfast,  and  to  dine  within  reach  of  the 
coal-range  which  brews  it  is  so  homely  a  fashion 
that  even  Mr.  Lipkind,  upon  whom  such  matters 
of  bad  form  lay  as  a  matter  of  course,  was  wont  to 
remonstrate. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  dining-room,  ma? 
Since  when  have  dining-rooms  gone  out  of  style?" 

Pouring  his  coffee  from  the  speckled  granite  pot, 
Mrs.  Lipkind  would  smile  up  and  over  it. 

"All  I  ask  is  my  son  should  never  have  it  worse 
than  to  eat  all  his  lifetime  in  just  such  a  kitchen  like 
mine.  Off  my  kitchen  floor  I  would  rather  eat  than 
off  some  people's  fine  polished  mahogany." 

The  mahogany  was  almost  not  far-fetched.    There 

222 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

was  a  blue-and-white  spick-and-spanness  about  Mrs. 
Lipkind's  kitchen  which  must  lie  within  the  soul 
of  the  housewife  who  achieves  it — the  lace-edged 
shelves,  the  scoured  armament  of  dishpan,  soup- 
pot,  and  what  not;  the  white  Swiss  window-curtains, 
so  starchy,  and  the  two  regimental  geraniums  on  the 
sill;  the  roller-towel  too  snowy  for  mortal  hand  to 
smudge;  the  white  sink,  hand-polished;  the  bland 
row  of  blue-and-white  china  jars  spicily  inscribed  to 
nutmeg,  cinnamon,  and  cloves.  That  such  a  kitchen 
could  be  within  the  tall  and  brick  confines  of  an 
upper-Manhattan  apartment-house  was  only  an- 
other of  the  thousand  thousand  paradoxes  over  which 
the  city  spreads  her  glittering  skirts.  The  street 
within  roaring  distance,  the  highway  of  Lenox 
Avenue  flowing  dizzily  constantly  past  her  windows, 
the  interior  of  Mrs.  Lipkind's  apartment,  from  the 
chromos  of  the  dear  dead  upon  its  walls  to  the  up- 
holstery of  another  decade  against  those  walls,  was 
as  little  of  the  day  as  if  the  sweep  of  the  city  were 
a  gale  across  a  mid-victorian  plain  and  the  flow  past 
the  window's  a  broaa  river  ruffled  by  wind. 

"You're  right,  ma;  there's  not  a  kitchen  in  New 
York  I'd  trade  it  for.  But  what's  the  idea  of  paying 
rent  on  a  dining-room?" 

"Sa-y,  if  not  for  when  Clara  comes  and  how  in 
America  all  young  people  got  extravagant  ideas,  we 
was  just  as  wTell  off  without  one  in  our  three  rooms 
in  Simpson  Street." 

"A  little  more  of  that  mackerel,  please." 

You  to  whom  the  chilled  grapefruit  and  the  egg- 
shell cup  of  morning  coffee  are  a  gastronomic  feat 

223 


HUMORESQUE 

not  always  easy  to  hurdle,  raise  not  your  digestive 
eyebrows.  At  precisely  fifteen  minutes  past  seven 
six  mornings  in  the  week,  seven-thirty,  Sundays, 
Mrs.  Lipkind  and  her  son  sat  down  to  a  breakfast 
that  was  steamingly  fit  for  those  only  who  dwell 
in  the  headacheless  kingdom  of  long,  sleepful  nights 
and  fur-coatless  tongues. 

"A  few  more  fried  potatoes  with  it,  Sammy?" 

"Whoa!  You  want  to  feed  me  up  for  the  fat 
boys'  regiment!" 

Mrs.  Lipkind  glanced  quickly  away,  her  profile 
seeming  to  quiver.  "Don't  use  that  word,  Sam — 
even  in  fun — it's  a  knife  in  me." 

"What  word?" 

"'Regiment.'" 

He  reached  across  to  pat  the  vein-corduroyed  back 
of  her  hand. 

"My  little  sweetheart  mamma,"  he  said. 

She,  in  turn,  put  out  her  hand  over  his,  her  old 
sagging  throat  visibly  constricting  in  a  gulp,  and 
her  eyes  as  if  they  could  never  be  finished  with 
yearning  over  him.  "You're  a  ^ood  boy,  Sammy." 

"Sure!" 

"I  always  say  no  matter  what  it  is  bad  my  life 
has  had  for  me  with  my  twenty-five  years  a  widow, 
my  only  daughter  to  marry  out  six  hundred  miles 
away  from  me,  my  business  troubles  when  I  had 
to  lose  the  little  store  what  your  papa  left  me, 
nothing  ain't  nothing,  Sammy,  when  a  mother  can 
raise  for  herself  a  boy  like  mine." 

"You  mean  when  a  fellow  can  pick  out  for  himself 
a  little  sweetheart  mamma  like  mine." 

224 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"Sammy,  stop  it  with  your  pinching-me  nonsense 
like  I  was  your  best  girl!" 

"Well,  ain't  you?" 

She  paused,  her  cup  of  coffee  half-way  to  her  lips, 
the  lines  of  her  face  seeming  to  want  to  lift  into 
what  would  be  a  smile.  "No,  Sammy;  your 
mother  knows  she  ain't,  and  if  she  was  anything  but 
a  selfish  old  woman,  she  would  be  glad  that  she 
ain't." 

"'Sh!  'Sh!"  said  Mr.  Lipkind,  reaching  this  time 
half  across  the  table  for  a  still  steaming  muffin  and 
opening  it  so  that  its  hot  fragrance  came  out.  "'Sh! 
No  April  showers!  Uh!  Uh!  Don't  you  dare!" 

"I  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Lipkind,  smiling  through  her 
tear  and  dashing  at  it  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 
"For  why  should  I  when  I  got  only  everything  to  be 
thankful  for?" 

"Now  you're  shouting!" 

"How  you  think,  Sammy,  Clara  likes  a  cheese 
pie  for  supper  to-night?  Last  week  I  could  see  she 
didn't  care  much  for  the  noodle  pudding  I  baked  her." 

Mr.  Lipkind,  who  was  ever  so  slightly  and  pre- 
maturely bald  and  still  more  slightly  and  prema- 
turely rotund,  suffered  a  rush  of  color  then,  his  ears 
suddenly  and  redly  conspicuous. 

"That's — that's  what  I  started  to  tell  you  last 
night,  ma.  Clara  telephoned  over  to  the  store  in 
the  afternoon  she — she  thought  she  wouldn't  come 
to  supper  this  Wednesday  night,  ma." 

"Sammy — you — you  and  Clara  'ain't  got  nothing 
wrong  together,  the  way  you  don't  see  each  other 
so  much  these  two  months?" 

225 


HUMORESQUE 

"Of  course  not,  ma;  it's  just  happened  a  few  times 
that  way.  The  trade's  in  town;  that's  all." 

"How  is  it  all  of  a  sudden  a  girl  in  the  wholesale 
ribbon  business  should  have  the  trade  to  entertain 
like  she  was  in  the  cloak-and-suit  chorus?" 

"It's  not  that  Clara's  busy  to-night,  ma.  She — 
she  only  thought  she — for  a  change — there's  a  little 
side  table  for  two — for  three — where  she  boards — 
she  thought  maybe  if — if  you  didn't  mind,  I'd  go 
over  to  her  place  for  Wednesday-night  supper  for  a 
change.  You  know  how  a  girl  like  Clara  gets  to 
feeling  obligated." 

"Obligated  from  eating  once  a  week  supper  in  her 
own  future  house!" 

"She  asked  I  should  bring  you,  too,  ma,  but  I 
know  how  bashful  you  are  to  go  in  places  like  that." 

"In  such  a  place  where  it's  all  style  and  no  food — 
yes." 

"That's  it;  so  we — I  thought,  ma,  that  is,  if  you 
don't  mind,  instead  of  Clara  here  to-night  for  sup- 
per, I — I'd  go  over  to  her  place.  If  you  don't  mind, 
ma." 

There  was  a  silence,  so  light,  so  slight  that  it  would 
not  have  even  held  the  dropping  of  a  pin,  but  yet 
had  a  depth  and  a  quality  that  set  them  both  to 
breathing  faster. 

"Why,  of  course,  Sammy,  you  should  go!" 

"I — we  thought  for  a  change." 

"You  should  have  told  me  yesterday,  Sammy, 
before  I  marketed  poultry." 

"I  know,  ma;  I — just  didn't.  Clara  only  'phoned 
at  four." 

226 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"A  few  more  fried  potatoes?" 

"No  more." 

"Sit  up  straight,  Sam,  from  out  your  round 
shoulders." 

"You  ain't — mad,  ma?" 

"For  why,  Sammy,  should  I  be  mad  that  you  go 
to  Clara  for  a  change  to  supper.  I'm  glad  if  you 
get  a  change." 

"It's  not  that,  ma.  It's  just  that  she  asked  it. 
You  know  how  a  person  feels,  her  taking  her  Wednes- 
day-night suppers  here  for  more  than  five  years  and 
never  once  have  I — we — set  foot  in  any  of  her 
boarding-houses.  She  imagines  she's  obligated.  You 
know  how  Clara  is,  so  independent." 

"You  should  go.  I  hear,  too,  how  Mrs.  Schulem 
sets  a  good  table." 

"I'll  be  home  by  nine,  ma — you  sure  you  don't 
mind?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind,  Sammy,  if  it  was  twelve. 
Since  when  is  it  that  a  grown-up  son  has  to  apologize 
to  his  mother  if  he  takes  a  step  without  her?" 

"You  can  believe  me,  ma,  but  I've  got  so  it  don't 
seem  like  theater  or  nothing  seems  like  going  out 
without  my  little  sweetheart  mamma  on  one  arm  and 
Clara  on  the  other." 

"It's  not  right,  Sammy,  you  should  spoil  me  so. 
Don't  think  that  even  if  you  don't  let  me  talk 
about  it,  I  don't  know  in  my  heart  how  I'm  in 
yours  and  Clara's  way." 

"Ma,  now  just  you  start  that  talk  and  you  know 
what  I'll  do — I'll  get  up  and  leave  the  table." 

"Sammy,  if  only  you  would  let  me  talk  about  it!" 
227 


HUMORESQUE 

"You  heard  what  I  said." 

"To  think  my  son  should  have  to  wait  with  his 
engagement  for  five  years  and  never  once  let  his 
mother  ask  him  why  it  is  he  waits.  It  ain't  because 
of  to-night  I  want  to  talk  about  it,  Sam,  but  if  I 
thought  it  was  me  that  had  stood  between  you  and 
Clara  all  these  five  years,  if — if  I  thought  it  was 
because  of  me  you  don't  see  each  other  so  much 
here  lately,  I — " 

"Ma!" 

"I  couldn't  stand  it,  son.  If  ever  a  boy  deserved 
happiness,  that  boy  is  you.  A  boy  that  scraped  his 
fingers  to  the  bone  to  marry  his  sister  off  well.  A 
boy  that  took  the  few  dollars  left  from  my  notion- 
store  and  made  such  a  success  in  retail  men's  hats 
and  has  given  it  to  his  mother  like  a  queen.  If  I 
thought  I  was  standing  in  such  a  boy's  way,  who 
ain't  only  a  grand  business  man  and  a  grand  son 
and  brother,  but  would  make  any  girl  the  grandest 
husband  that  only  his  father  before  him  could  equal, 
I  couldn't  live,  Sammy,  I  couldn't  live." 

"You  should  know  how  sick  such  talk  makes 
me!" 

"I  haven't  got  hard  feelings,  Sammy,  because 
Clara  don't  like  it  here." 

"She  does." 

"For  why  should  an  up-to-date  American  girl  like 
Clara  like  such  an  old-fashioned  place  as  I  keep? 
Nowadays,  girls  got  different  ideas.  They  don't 
think  nothing  of  seventy-five-dollar  suits  and  twelve- 
dollar  shoes.  I  can't  help  it  that  it  goes  against  my 
grain  no  matter  how  fine  a  money-maker  a  girl  is.  In 

228 


A   BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

the  old  country  my  sister  Carrie  and  me  never  even  had 
shoes  on  our  feet  until  we  were  twelve,  much  less — " 

"But,  ma- 

"Oh,  I  don't  blame  her,  Sam.  I  don't  blame  her 
that  she  don't  like  it  the  way  I  dish  up  everything 
on  the  table  so  we  can  serve  ourselves.  She  likes  it 
passed  the  way  they  did  that  night  at  Mrs.  Gold- 
finger's  new  daughter-in-law's,  where  everything  is 
carried  from  one  to  the  next  one,  and  you  got  to 
help  yourself  quick  over  your  shoulders." 

"Clara's  like  me,  ma;  she  wants  you  to  keep  a 
servant  to  do  the  waiting  on  you." 

"It  ain't  in  me,  Sam,  to  be  bossed  to  by  a  servant, 
just  like  I  can't  take  down  off  the  walls  pictures  of 
your  papa  selig  and  your  grandma,  because  it  ain't 
stylish  they  should  be  there.  It's  a  feeling  in  me 
for  my  own  flesh  and  blood  that  nothing  can  change." 

"Clara  don't  want  you  to  change  that,  ma." 

"She's  a  fine,  up-to-date  girl,  Sam.  A  girl  that 
can  work  herself  up  to  head  floor-lady  in  wholesale 
ribbons  and  forty  dollars  a  week  has  got  in  her  the 
kind  of  smartness  my  boy  should  have  in  his  wife. 
I'm  an  old  woman  standing  in  the  way  of  my  boy. 
If  I  wasn't,  I  could  go  out  to  Marietta,  Ohio,  by  Ruby, 
and  I  wouldn't  keep  having  inside  of  me  such  terrible 
fears  for  my  boy  and — and  how  things  are  now  on 
the  other  side  and — and — " 

"Now,  now,  ma;   no  April  showers!" 

"An  old  woman  that  can't  even  be  happy  with  a 
good  daughter  like  Ruby,  but  hangs  always  on  her 
son  like  a  stone  around  his  neck!" 

"You  mean  like  a  diamond." 
229 


HUMORESQUE 

"A  stone,  holding  him  down." 

"Ma!"  Mr.  Lipkind  pushed  back,  napkin  awry 
at  his  throat  and  his  eyes  snapping  points  of  light. 
"Now  if  you  want  to  spoil  my  breakfast,  just  say 
so  and  I — I'll  quit.  Why  should  you  be  living  with 
Ruby  out  in  Marietta  if  you're  happier  here  with 
me  where  you  belong?  If  you  knew  how  sore  these 
here  fits  of  yours  make  me,  you'd  cut  them  out — 
that's  what  you  would.  I'm  not  going  over  to 
Clara's  at  all  now  for  supper,  if  that's  how  you  feel 
about  it." 

Mrs.  Lipkind  rose  then,  crossed,  leaning  over  the 
back  of  his  chair  and  inclosing  his  face  in  the  quiver- 
ing hold  of  her  two  hands.  "Sammy,  Sammy,  I 
didn't  mean  it !  I  know  I  ain't  in  your  way.  How 
can  I  be  when  there  ain't  a  day  passes  I  don't  invite 
you  to  get  married  and  come  here  to  live  and  fix  the 
flat  any  way  what  Clara  wants  or  even  move  down- 
town in  a  finer  one  where  she  likes  it?  I  know  I 
ain't  in  your  way,  son.  I  take  it  back." 

"Well,  that's  more  like  it." 

"You  mustn't  be  mad  at  mamma  when  she  gets 
old-fashioned  ideas  in  her  head." 

He  stroked  her  hand  at  his  cheek,  pressing  it 
closer. 

"Sit  down  and  finish  your  breakfast,  little  sweet- 
heart mamma." 

"Is  it  all  right  now,  Sammy?" 

"Of  course  it  is!"  he  said,  his  eyes  squeezed  tightly 
shut. 

"Promise  mamma  you'll  go  over  by  Clara's 
to-night." 

230 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"But—" 

"Promise  me,  Sammy;  I  can't  stand  it  if  you 
don't." 

"Alright,  I'll  go,  ma." 

The  Declaration  of  Economic  Independence  is  not 
always  a  subtle  one.  There  was  that  about  Clara 
Bloom,  even  to  the  rather  Hellenic  swing  of  her 
very  tailor-made  back  and  the  firm,  neat  clack  of 
her  not  too  high  heels,  which  proclaimed  that  a 
new  century  had  filed  her  fetter-free  from  the  nine- 
teen-centuries-long  chain  of  women  whose  pin- 
money  had  too  often  been  blood-money  or  the 
filched  shekels  from  trousers  pocket  or  what  in  the 
toga  corresponded  thereto. 

And  yet,  when  Miss  Bloom  smiled,  which  upon 
occasion  she  did  spontaneously  enough  to  show  a 
gold  molar,  there  were  not  only  Hypatia  and  Portia 
in  the  straight  line  of  her  lips,  but  lurked  in  the  little 
tip- tilt  at  the  corners  a  quirk  from  Psyche,  who 
loved  and  was  so  loved,  and  in  the  dimple  in  her 
chin  a  manhole,  as  it  were,  for  Mr.  Samuel  Lipkind. 

At  six  o'clock,  where  the  wintry  workaday  flows 
into  dusk  and  Fifth  Avenue  flows  across  Broadway, 
they  met,  these  two,  finding  each  other  out  in  the 
gaseous  shelter  of  a  Subway  kiosk.  She  from  the 
tall,  thin,  skylightless  skyscraper  dedicated  to  the 
wholesale  supply  of  woman's  insatiable  demand  for 
the  ribbon  gewgaw;  he  from  a  plate-glass  shop  with 
his  name  inscribed  across  its  front  and  more  humbly 
given  over  to  the  more  satiable  demand  of  the 
male  for  the  two-dollar  hat.  There  was  a  gold-and- 
16  231 


HUMORESQUE 

black  sign  which  ran  across  the  not  inconsiderable 
width  of  Mr.  Lipkind's  store-front  and  which  in- 
variably captioned  his  four  inches  of  Sunday-news- 
paper advertisement: 

SAMMY  LIPKIND  WANTS  YOUR  HEAD 

As  near  as  it  is  possible  for  the  eye  to  simulate  the 
heart,  there  was  exactly  that  sentiment  in  his  glance 
now  as  he  found  out  Miss  Bloom,  she  in  a  purple-felt 
hat  and  the  black  scallops  of  escaping  hair,  blacker 
because  the  red  was  out  in  her  cheeks. 

He  broke  into  the  kind  of  smile  that  lifted  his  every 
feature,  screw-lines  at  his  eyes  coming  out,  head 
bared,  and  his  greeting  beginning  to  come  even 
before  she  was  within  hearing  distance  of  it. 

There  was  in  Mr.  Lipkind  precious  little  of 
Lothario,  Launcelot,  Galahad,  or  any  of  that 
blankety-blank-verse  coterie.  There  remains  yet 
unsung  the  lay  of  the  five-foot-five,  slightly  bald, 
and  ever  so  slightly  rotund  lover.  Falstaff  and 
Romeo  are  the  extremes  of  what  Mr.  Lipkind  was  the 
not  unhappy  medium.  Offhand  in  public  places, 
men  would  swap  crop  conditions  and  city  politics 
with  him.  Twice,  tired  mothers  in  railway  stations 
had  volunteered  him  their  babies  to  dandle.  Young 
women,  however,  were  not  all  impervious  to  him, 
and  uncrossed  their  feet  and  became  consciously 
unconscious  of  him  across  street-car  aisles.  In  his 
very  Two  Dollar  Hat  Store,  Sara  Minniesinger, 
hooked  of  profile,  but  who  had  impeccably  kept  his 

232 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

debits  and  credits  for  twelve  years  back  under  the 
stock-balcony  and  a  green  eye-shade,  was  wont  to  cry 
of  evenings  over  and  for  him  into  her  dingy  pillow. 
He  was  so  unconscious  of  this  that,  on  the  twelfth 
anniversary  of  her  incarceration  beneath  the  stock- 
balcony,  he  commissioned  his  mother  to  shop  her 
a  crown  of  thorns  in  the  form  of  a  gold-handled 
umbrella  with  a  bachelor-girl  flash-light  attachment. 

There  are  men  like  that,  to  whom  life  is  not  only  a 
theosophy  of  one  God,  but  of  one  women  who  is 
sufficient  thereof.  When  Samuel  Lipkind  greeted 
Clara  Bloom  there  was  just  that  in  his  ardently  ap- 
praising glance. 

"Didn't  mean  to  keep  you  waiting,  Clara — a  last- 
minute  customer.  You  know." 

"I've  been  counting  red  heads  and  wishing  the 
Subway  was  pulled  by  white  horses." 

"Say,  Clara,  but  you  look  a  picture!  Believe  me, 
Bettina,  that  is  some  lid!" 

Miss  Bloom  tucked  up  a  rear  strand  of  curl,  turning 
her  head  to  extreme  profile  for  his  more  complete 
approval. 

"Is  it  an  elegant  trifle,  Sam?  I  ask  you  is  it  an 
elegant  trifle?" 

"Clara,  it's — immense!  The  best  yet!  What  did 
it  set  you  back?" 

"Don't  ask  me!  I'm  afraid  just  saying  it  would 
give  your  mother  heart-failure  by  mental  telepathy." 

He  linked  her  arm.  "Whatever  you  paid,  it's 
worth  the  money.  It  sets  you  off  like  a  gipsy 
queen." 

"None  of  that,  Sam!    Mush  is  fattening." 
233 


HUMORESQUE 

"Mush  nothing!    It's  the  truth." 

"Hurry.  Schulem's  got  a  new  rule — no  reserving 
the  guest-table." 

They  let  themselves  be  swept  into  the  great  surge 
of  the  underground  river  with  all  of  the  rather  thick- 
skinned  unsensitiveness  to  shoulder-to-shoulder  con- 
tact which  the  Subway  engenders.  Swaying  from 
straps  in  a  locked  train,  which  tore  like  a  shriek 
through  a  tube  whose  sides  sweated  dampness,  they 
talked  in  voices  trained  to  compete  with  the  roar. 

"What's  the  idea,  Clara?  When  you  telephoned 
yesterday  I  was  afraid  maybe  it  was — Eddie  Leonard 
cutting  in  on  my  night  again." 

"Eddie  nothing.  Is  it  a  law,  Sam,  that  I  have 
to  eat  off  your  mother  every  Wednesday  night  of  my 
life?" 

"No — only — you  know  how  it  is  when  you  get 
used  to  things  one  way." 

"I  told  you  I  had  something  to  talk  over,  didn't 
I?" 

They  were  rounding  a  curve  now,  so  that  they 
swayed  face  to  face,  nose  to  nose. 

A  few  crinkles,  frequent  with  him  of  late,  came 
out  in  rays  from  his  eyes. 

"Is  it  anything  you — you  couldn't  say  in  front  of 
ma?" 

"Yes." 

He  inserted  two  fingers  into  his  collar,  rearing 
back  his  head. 

"Anything  wrong,  Clara?" 

"You  mean  is  anything  right." 

They  rode  in  silence  after  that,  both  of  them  read- 

234 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

ing  in  three  colors  the  border  effulgencies  of  frenzied 
advertising. 

But  when  they  emerged  to  a  quieter  up-town 
night  that  was  already  pointed  with  a  first  star, 
he  took  her  arm  as  they  turned  off  into  a  side-street 
that  was  architecturally  a  barracks  to  the  eye, 
brownstone  front  after  brownstone  front  after  brown- 
stone  front.  Block  after  block  of  New  York's  side- 
streets  are  sunk  thus  in  brown  study. 

"You  mustn't  be  so  ready  to  be  put  out  over 
every  little  thing  I  say,  Clara.  Is  it  anything  wrong 
to  want  you  up  at  the  house  just  as  often  as  we  can 
get  you?" 

"No,  Sam;   it  ain't  that." 

"Well  then,  what  is  it?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  beginning  all  that  again?  I 
want  to  begin  to-night  where  we  usually  leave  off." 

' '  Is  it — is  it  something  we've  talked  about  before, 
Clara?" 

"Yes — and  no.  We've  talked  so  much  and  so 
long  without  ever  getting  anywheres — what's  the 
difference  whether  we've  ever  talked  it  before  or 
not?" 

"You  just  wait,  Clara;  everything  is  going  to 
come  out  fine  for  us." 

Her  upper  lip  lifted  slightly.  "Yes,"  she  said; 
"I've  heard  that  before." 

"We're  going  to  be  mighty  happy  some  day,  just 
the  same,  and  don't  you  let  yourself  forget  it. 
We've  got  good  times  ahead." 

"Oh  dear!"  she  sighed  out. 

"What?" 

235 


HUMORESQUE 

"Nothing." 

He  patted  her  arm.  "You'll  never  know,  Clara, 
the  torture  it's  been  for  me  even  your  going  out 
those  few  times  with  Eddie  Leonard  has  put  me 
through.  You're  mine,  Clara;  a  hundred  Eddies 
couldn't  change  that." 

"Who  said  anybody  wanted  to  change  it?" 

He  patted  her  arm  again  very  closely.  "You're 
a  wonderful  girl,  Clara." 

They  turned  up  the  stoop  of  Mrs.  Schulem's 
boarding-house,  strictly  first-class.  How  they  flour- 
ish in  the  city,  these  institutions  of  the  Not  Yet, 
the  Never  Was,  the  Never  Will  Be,  and  the  Has 
Been!  They  are  the  half-way  houses  going  up  and 
the  mausoleums  coming  down  life's  incline,  and  he 
who  lingers  is  lost  to  the  drab  destiny  of  this  or  that 
third-floor-back  hearthstone,  hot  and  cold  running 
water,  all  the  comforts  of  home.  That  is  why,  even 
as  she  moved  up  from  the  rooming-  to  the  boarding- 
house  and  down  from  the  third-floor  back  to  the 
second-story  front,  there  was  always  under  Clara 
Bloom's  single  bed  the  steamer-trunk  scarcely  un- 
packed, and  in  her  heart  the  fear  that,  after  all,  this 
might  not  be  transiency,  but  home.  That  is  why, 
too,  she  paid  her  board  by  the  week  and  used  printed 
visiting-cards. 

And  yet,  if  there  exists  such  a  paradox  as  an 
aristocracy  among  boarding-houses,  Mrs.  Schulem's 
was  of  it.  None  of  the  boiled  odors  lay  on  her  hall- 
ways, which  were  not  papered,  but  a  cream-colored 
fresco  of  better  days.  There  was  only  one  pair  of 
bisques,  no  folding-bed,  and  but  the  slightest  touch 

236 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

of  dried  grasses  in  her  unpartitioned  front  parlor. 
The  slavey  who  opened  the  door  was  black-faced, 
white-coated,  and  his  bedraggled  skirts  were  trousers 
with  a  line  of  braid  up  each  seam.  Two  more  of 
him  were  also  genii  of  the  basement  dining-hall, 
two  low  rooms  made  into  one  and  entirely  bisected 
by  a  long-stemmed  T  of  dining-table,  and  between 
the  lace-curtained  windows  a  small  table  for  two, 
with  fairly  snowy  napkins  flowering  out  of  its 
water- tumblers,  and  in  its  center  a  small  island  of 
pressed-glass  vinegar-cruet,  bottle  of  darkly  por- 
tentous condiment,  glass  of  sugar,  and  another  of 
teaspoons. 

It  was  here  that  Miss  Bloom  and  Mr.  Lipkind 
finally  settled  themselves,  snugly  and  sufficiently 
removed  from  the  T-shaped  battalion  of  eyes  and 
ears  to  insure  some  privacy. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Lipkind,  unflowering  his  napkin, 
spreading  it  across  his  knees,  and  exhaling,  "this  is 
fine!" 

There  was  an  aura  of  authoritativeness  seemed  to 
settle  over  Miss  Bloom. 

This  to  one  of  the  black-faced  genii:  "Take  care 
of  us  right  to-night,  Johnson,  and  I'll  fix  it  up  with 
you.  See  if  you  can't  manage  it  in  the  kitchen  to 
bring  us  a  double  portion  of  those  banana  fritters  I 
see  they're  eating  at  the  big  table.  Say  they're  for 
Miss  Bloom.  I'll  fix  it  up  with  you." 

"Now,  Clara,  don't  you  go  bothering  with  extras 
for  me.  This  is  certainly  fine.  Sorry  you  never 
asked  me  before." 

"You  know  why  I  never  asked  you  before." 
237 


HUMORESQUE 

"Why,  you  never  saw  the  like  how  pleased  ma 
was.  She  was  the  first  one  to  fall  in  with  the  idea 
of  my  coming  to-night." 

She  dipped  into  a  shallow  plate  of  amber  soup. 
"I  know,"  she  said,  "all  about  that." 

"Ma's  a  good  sport  about  being  left  at  home 
alone." 

"How  do  you  know?  You  never  tried  it  until 
to-night.  I'll  bet  it's  the  first  time  since  that  night 
you  first  met  me,  five  years  ago,  at  Jerome  Fertig's, 
and  it  wouldn't  have  been  then  if  she  hadn't  had  the 
neuralgia  and  it  was  your  own  clerk's  wedding." 

He  laid  down  his  spoon,  settling  back  a  bit  from 
the  table,  pulling  the  napkin  across  his  knees  out 
into  a  string. 

"I  thought  we'd  gone  all  over  that,  Clara." 

"Yes;  but  where  did  it  get  us?  That's  why  we're 
here  to-night,  Sam — to  get  somewheres." 

He  crumbed  his  bread.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Clara?" 

She  forced  his  slow  gaze  to  hers  calmly,  her  hands 
outstretched  on  the  table  between  them.  "I've 
made  up  my  mind,  Sam.  Things  can't  go  on  this 
way  no  longer  between  us." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  we've  either  got  to  act  or  quit." 

He  was  rolling  the  bread  pills  again,  a  flush  rising. 
"You  know  where  I  stand,  Clara,  on  things  between 
us." 

"Yes,  Sam,  and  now  you  know  where  I  stand." 
The  din  of  the  dining-room  surged  over  the  pause 
between  them.  Still  in  the  purple  hat,  and  her  wrap 

238 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

thrown  back  over  her  chair,  she  held  that  pause 
coolly,  level  of  eye.  "I'm  thirty-one  now,  Sam, 
three  weeks  and  two  days  older  than  you.  I  don't 
see  the  rest  of  my  days  with  the  Arnstein  Ribbon 
Company.  I'm  not  getting  any  younger.  Five 
years  is  a  long  time  out  of  a  girl's  life.  Five  of  the 
best  ones,  too.  She  likes  to  begin  to  see  her  future 
when  she  reaches  my  age.  A  future  with  a  good 
providing  man.  You  and  me  are  just  where  we 
started  five  years  ago." 

"I  know,  Clara,  and  I'd  give  my  right  hand  to 
change  things." 

"If  I'd  been  able  to  save  a  cent,  it  might  be  dif- 
ferent. But  I  haven't — I'm  that  way.  I  make  big 
and  spend  big.  But  you  can't  blame  a  girl  for 
wanting  to  see  her  future.  That's  me,  and  I'm  not 
ashamed  to  say  it." 

"If  only,  Clara,  I  could  get  you  to  see  things  my 
way.  If  you'd  be  willing  to  try  it  with  ma.  Why, 
with  a  little  diplomacy  from  you,  ma'd  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  please  you." 

"There's  no  use  beginning  that,  Sam;  it's  a  waste 
of  time.  Why — why,  just  the  difference  in  the  way 
me  and — and  your  mother  feel  on  money  matters  is 
enough.  There's  no  use  to  argue  that  with  me; 
it's  a  waste  of  time." 

He  lifted  and  let  droop  his  shoulders  with  some- 
thing of  helplessness  in  the  gesture.  "What's  the 
use,  then?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  more  to 
say  to  you,  Clara.  Oh,  don't  think  my  mother 
don't  realize  how  things  are  between  us — it's  all  I 
can  do  to  keep  denying  and  denying." 

239 


HUMORESQUE 

"Well,  you  can't  say  she  knows  from  my  telling." 

"No;  but  there's  not  a  day  she  don't  say  to  me, 
particularly  these  last  few  times  since  you  been 
breaking  your  dates  with  us  pretty  regular — I — - 
well  she  sees  how  it  worries  me,  and  there's  not  a 
day  she  don't  say  to  me,  'Sammy,'  she  said  to  me, 
only  this  morning,  'if  I  thought  I  was  keeping  you 
and  Clara  apart — ' ' 

"A  blind  man  could  see  it." 

"There's  not  a  day  passes  over  her  head  she  don't 
offer  to  go  to  live  with  my  sister  in  Ohio,  when  I 
know  just  how  that  one  month  of  visiting  her  that 
time  nearly  killed  her." 

"Funny  visiting  an  own  daughter  could  nearly  kill 
anybody." 

"It's  my  brother-in-law,  Clara.  My  mother 
couldn't  no  more  live  with  Isadore  Katz  than  she 
could  fly.  He's  a  fine  fellow  and  all  that,  but  she's 
not  used  to  a  man  in  the  house  that  potters  around 
the  kitchen  and  the  children's  food  and  things  like 
Isadore  loves  to.  She's  used  to  her  own  little  home 
and  her  own  little  way." 

"Exactly." 

"If  I  want  to  kill  my  mother,  Clara,  all  I  got  to 
do  is  put  her  away  from  me  in  her  old  age.  Even 
my  sister  knows  it.  'Sammy,'  she  wrote  to  me  that 
time  after  ma's  visit  out  there,  'I  love  our  mother 
like  you  do,  but  I  got  a  nervous  husband  who  likes 
his  own  ways  about  the  housekeeping  and  the  chil- 
dren and  the  cooking,  and  nobody  knows  better 
than  me  that  the  place  for  ma  to  be  happy  is  with 
you  in  her  own  home  and  her  own  ways  of  doing.' ' 

240 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"I  call  that  a  nerve  for  a  sister  to  let  herself  out 
like  that." 

"It's  not  nerve,  Clara;  it's  the  truth.  Ruby's  a 
good  girl  in  her  way." 

"What  about  you — ain't  your  life  to  be  thought 
of?  Ain't  it  enough  she  was  married  off  with  enough 
money  for  her  husband  to  buy  a  half -interest  in  a 
ladies'  ready-to-wear  store  out  there?" 

"Why,  if  I  was  to  bring  my  little  wife  to  that  flat 
of  ours,  Clara,  or  any  other  kind  further  down- town 
that  she'd  want  to  pick  out  for  herself,  I  think  my 
mother  would  just  walk  on  her  hands  and  knees  to 
make  tilings  pleasant  for  her.  Maybe  you  don't 
know  it,  but  on  your  Wednesday  nights  up  at  the 
house,  she  is  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  fixing 
around  and  cooking  the  things  she  thinks  you'll 
like." 

"I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  your  mother,  Sam. 
I  think  she's  a  grand  woman,  and  I  admire  a  fellow 
that's  good  to  his  mother.  I  always  say,  'Give  me 
a  fellow  every  time  that  is  good  to  his  mother  and 
that  fellow  will  be  good  to  his  wife.' ' 

"I'm  not  pretending  to  say  ma  mayn't  be  a  little 
peculiar  in  her  ways,  but  you  never  saw  an  old 
person  that  wasn't,  did  you?  Neither  am  I  saying 
it's  exactly  any  girl's  idea  to  start  out  married  life 
with  a  third  person  in — " 

"I've  alwa}^  swore  to  myself,  Sam,  and  I'm  not 
ashamed  to  admit  it,  that  if  I  can't  marry  to  improve 
myself,  I'm  going  to  stay  single  till  I  can.  I'm  not 
a  six-dollar-a-week  stenog  that  has  to  marry  for 
enough  to  eat.  I  can  afford  to  buy  a  seventy-five 

241 


HUMORESQUE 

dollar  suit  every  winter  of  my  life  and  twelve-dollar 
shoes  every  time  I  need  them.  The  hat  on  my  head 
cost  me  eighteen-fifty  wholesale,  without  having  to 
be  beholding  to  nobody,  and — " 

"Ma  don't  mean  those  things,  Clara.  It's  just 
when  she  hears  the  price  girls  pay  for  things  nowa- 
days she  can't  help  being  surprised  the  way  things 
have  changed." 

"I'm  not  a  small  potato,  Sam.  I  never  could  live 
like  a  small  potato." 

"Why,  you  know  there's  nothing  I  like  better  than 
to  see  you  dressed  in  the  best  that  money  can  buy. 
You  heard  what  I  said  about  that  hat  just  now, 
didn't  you?  Whatever  it  cost,  it's  worth  it.  I  can 
afford  to  dress  my  little  wife  in  the  best  that  comes. 
There's  nothing  too  good  for  her." 

"Yes;  but—" 

"All  ma  needs,  Clara,  is  a  little  humoring.  She's 
had  to  stint  so  all  her  life,  it's  a  little  hard  to  get 
her  used  to  a  little  prosperity.  Take  me.  Why, 
if  I  bring  her  home  a  little  shawl  or  a  pockabook 
that  cost,  say,  ten  dollars,  you  think  I  tell  her? 
No.  I  say,  'Here's  a  bargain  I  picked  up  for  three 
ninety-eight,'  and  right  away  she's  happy  with  some- 
thing reduced." 

"Your  mother  and  me,  Sam,  and,  mind  you,  I'm 
not  saying  she  isn't  a  grand  old  lady,  wasn't  no 
more  made  to  live  together  than  we  was  made  to 
fly.  I  couldn't  no  more  live  her  way  than  she  could 
live  mine.  I've  got  a  practical  head  on  my  shoulders 
— I  don't  deny  it — and  I  want  to  improve  ourselves 
in  this  world  when  we  marry,  and  have  an  up-to-date 

242 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

home  like  every  young  couple  that  starts  out 
nowadays." 

"Sure,  we—" 

"That  flat  of  yours  up  there  or  any  other  one 
under  the  conditions  would  be  run  like  the  ark. 
I'm  an  up-to-date  girl,  I  am.  There's  not  a  girl 
living  would  be  willing  to  marry  a  well-off  fellow 
like  you  and  go  huck  herself  in  a  place  she  couldn't 
even  have  the  running  of  herself  or  have  her  own 
say-so  about  the  purse-strings.  It  may  sound  un- 
becoming, but  when  I  marry  I'm  going  to  better 
myself,  I  am." 

"I— why— " 

"If  she  can't  even  stand  for  her  own  son-in-law 
walking  into  his  own  kitchen  in  his  own  house — 
Oh,  you  don't  find  me  starting  my  married  life  that 
way  at  this  late  date.  I  haven't  held  off  five  years 
for  that." 

Mr.  Lipkind  pushed  back  his  but  slightly  tasted 
food,  lines  of  strain  and  a  certain  whiteness  out  in 
his  face.  "It — it  just  seems  awful,  Clara,  this  going 
around  in  a  circle  and  not  getting  anywheres." 

"I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope,  I  am." 

"I  see  your  point  in  a  way,  Clara,  but,  my  God! 
a  man's  mother  is  his  mother!  It's  eating  up  my 
life  just  as  it's  eating  yours,  but  what  you  going 
to  do  about  it?  It  just  seems  the  best  years  of  our 
life  are  going,  waiting  for  God  knows  what." 

Hands  clasped  until  her  finger-nails  whitened, 
Miss  Bloom  leaned  across  the  table,  her  voice  care- 
ful and  concentrated.  "Now  you  said  something! 
That's  why  you  and  me  are  here  alone  together  to- 

243 


night.  There's  not  going  to  be  a  sixth  year  of  this 
kind  of  waiting  between  us.  Things  have  got  to 
come  to  a  head.  I've  got  a  chance,  Sam,  to  marry. 
Eddie  Leonard  has  asked  me." 

"I— thought  so." 

"Eddie  Leonard  ain't  a  Sam  Lipkind,  but  after 
the  war  his  five-thousand-dollar  job  is  down  at 
Arnstein's  waiting  for  him,  and  he's  got  a  good 
stiff  bank-account  saved  as  good  as  yours  and — and 
no  strings  to  it.  I  believe  in  a  girl  facing  those 
facts  the  same  as  any  other  facts.  Why,  I — this 
war  and  all — why,  if  anything  was  to  happen  to  you 
to-morrow — us  unmarried  this  way — I'd  be  left  high 
and  dry  without  so  much  as  a  penny  to  show  for  the 
best  five  years  of  my  life.  We've  got  to  do  one 
thing  or  anothsr,  Sam.  I  believe  in  a  girl  being 
practical  as  well  as  romantic." 

"I — see  your  point,  Clara." 

"I'm  done  with  going  around  in  this  circle  of 
ours." 

"You  mean — " 

"You  know  what  I  mean." 

The  lower  half  of  Mr.  Lipkind's  face  seemed  to 
lock,  as  it  were,  into  a  kind  of  rigidity  which  shot 
out  his  lower  jaw.  "I'll  see  Eddie  Leonard  burning 
like  brimstone  before  I  let  him  have  you!" 

"Well?" 

"God!  I  don't  know  what  to  say — I  don't 
know  what  to  say!" 

"That's  your  trouble,  Sam;  you're  so  chicken- 
hearted  you — " 

"My  father  died  when  I  was  five,  Clara,  and  no 
244 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

matter  what  my  feelings  are  to  you,  there's  no 
power  on  earth  can  make  me  quit  having  to  be  him 
as  well  as  a  son  to  my  mother.  Maybe  it  sounds 
softy  to  you — but  if  I  got  to  pay  with  her  happiness 
for — ours — then  I  never  want  happiness  to  the  day 
I  die." 

"In  other  words,  it's  the  mother  first." 

"Don't  put  it  that  way — it's  her — age — first.  It 
ain't  what  she  wants  and  don't  want ;  it's  what  she's 
got  to  have.  My  mother  couldn't  live  away  from 
me." 

"She  could  if  you  were  called  to  war." 

There  was  something  electric  in  the  silence  that 
followed,  something  that  seemed  to  tighten  the  gaze 
of  each  for  the  other. 

"But  I  haven't  been— yet." 

"  The  next  draft  will  get  you." 

"Maybe." 

"Well,  what  '11  you  do  then?" 

"That's  something  me  and  ma  haven't  ever  dis- 
cussed. The  war  hasn't  been  mentioned  in  our 
house  for  two  years — except  that  the  letters  don't 
come  from  Germany,  and  that's  a  grief  to  her. 
There's  enough  time  for  her  to  cross  that  bridge 
when  we  come  to  it.  She  worries  about  it  enough." 

"If  I  was  a  man  I'd  enlist,  I  would!" 

"I'd  give  my  right  hand  to.  Every  other  night  I 
dream  I'm  a  lieutenant." 

"Why,  there's  not  a  fellow  I  know  that  hasn't 
beaten  the  draft  to  it  and  enlisted  for  the  kind  of 
service  he  wants.  I  know  a  half  a  dozen  who  have 
got  in  the  home  guard  and  things  and  have  saved 

245 


HUMORESQUE 

themselves  by  volunteering  from  being  sent  to 
France." 

"I  wouldn't  dodge  the  front  thataway.  I'd  like 
to  enlist  as  a  private  and  then  work  myself  up  to 
lieutenant  and  then  on  up  to  captain  and  get  right 
into  the  fray  on  the  front.  I — " 

"You  bet,  if  I  was  a  fellow,  I'd  enlist  for  the  kind 
of  home  service  I  wanted — that's  what  Eddie  and 
all  the  fellows  are  doing." 

"So  would  I,  Clara,  if  I  was  what  you  call  a — free 
man.  There's  nobody  given  it  more  thought  than 
me." 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you?    Talk's  cheap." 

"You  know  why,  Clara,  to  get  back  to  going 
around  in  a  circle  again." 

"But  you've  got  to  go,  sooner  or  later.  You've 
got  a  comfortable  married  sister  and  independent 
circumstances  of  your  own  to  keep  your  mother; 
you  haven't  got  a  chance  for  exemption." 

"I  don't  want  exemption." 

"Well,  then,  beat  the  draft  to  it." 

"I —  Most  girls  ain't  so  anxious  to — to  get  rid  of 
their  best  fellows,  Clara." 

"Silly!  Can't  you  see  the  point?  If — if  you'd 
enlist  and  go  off  to  camp,  I — I  could  go  and  live 
near  you  there  like  Birdie  Harberger  does  her 
husband.  See?" 

"You  mean—" 

"Then — God  forbid  anything  should  happen  to 
you! — I'm  your  wife.  You  see,  Sam?" 

"Why,  Clara—" 

"You  see  what  I  mean.  But  nothing  can  happen 
246 


A   BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

this  way,  because  if  you  try  to  enlist  in  some  mechan- 
ical department  where  they  need  you  in  this  country 
— you  see,  Sam?  See?" 

"  I— see." 

"Your  mother  would  have  to  get  used  to  things 
then,  Sam — it  would  be  the  easiest  for  her.  An 
old  lady  like  her  couldn't  go  trailing  around  the  out- 
skirts of  a  camp  like  your  wife  could.  Think  of  the 
comfort  it  '11  be  to  her  to  have  me  with  you  if  she 
can't  be.  She'll  get  so  used  to — living  alone — " 

"I —  You  mustn't  talk  that  way  to  me,  Clara. 
When  I'm  called  to  serve  my  country,  I'm  the  first 
one  that  will  want  to  go.  I've  given  more  money 
already  than  I  can  afford  to  help  the  boys  who  are 
at  the  front.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned,  enlisting 
like  this  with — with  you — around,  would  be  the  hap- 
piest thing  ever  happened  to  me,  but — well,  you 
see  for  yourself." 

"You  mean,  then,  you  won't?" 

"I  mean,  Clara,  I  can't." 

She  was  immediately  level  of  tone  again  and 
pushed  back,  placing  her  folded  napkin  beside  her 
place,  patting  it  down. 

"Well,  then,  Sam,  I'm  done." 

"'Done,'  Clara?" 

"Yep.  That  lets  me  out.  I've  given  you  every 
chance  to  make  this  thing  possible.  Your  mother 
is  no  better  and  no  different  than  thousands  and 
thousands  of  other  mothers  who  are  giving  their  sons, 
only,  she  is  better  off  than  most,  because  she's  pro- 
vided for.  It's  all  right  for  a  fellow's  mother  to 
come  first,  maybe,  but  if  his  wife  isn't  even  to 
17  247 


HUMORESQUE 

come  second  or  third  or  tenth,  then  it's  about  time 
to  call  quits.  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  to  this  in 
a  day.  I'm  done." 

"Clara—" 

"Ed  has  asked  me.  I  don't  pretend  he's  my 
ideal,  but  he's  more  concerned  about  my  future 
than  he  is  about  anybody  else's.  If  I'm  ready  to 
leave  with  him  on  that  twelve-o'clock  train  for  Boston 
to-morrow,  where  he's  going  to  be  put  in  the  clerical 
corps  at  Camp  Usonis,  we'll  be  married  there  to- 
morrow night,  and  I'll  settle  down  somewhere  near 
camp  as  long  as  I  can.  He's  got  a  good  nest-egg 
if — God  forbid! — anything  should  happen.  That's 
the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell." 

"My  God!  Clara,  this  is  awful!  Eddie  Leonard 
he's  not  your  kind;  he — " 

"I've  given  you  first  chance,  Sam.  That  proves 
how  you  stand  with  me.  A  one!  Ace  high!  First! 
Nobody  can  ever  take  your  place  with  me.  Don't 
be  a  boob  coming  and  going,  Sam;  you're  one  now 
not  to  see  things  and  you'll  be  another  one  spelled 
backward  if  you  don't  help  yourself  to  your  chance 
when  it  comes.  You've  got  your  life  in  front  of 
you,  and  your  mother's  got  hers  in  back  of  her. 
Now  choose." 

"My  God!  Clara,  this  is— terrible!  Why— I'd 
rather  be  a  thousand  boobs  than  take  my  mother's 
heart  and  tear  it  to  pieces." 

"You  won't?" 

"I  can't." 

"Don't  say  that,  Sam.  Go  home  and — sleep  on 
it.  Think  it  over.  Please!  Come  to  your  senses, 

248 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

honey.  Telephone  me  at  eleven  to  keep  me  from 
catching  that  twelve-o'clock  train.  Don't  let  me 
take  it  with  Eddie.  Think  it  over,  Sam.  Honey — 
our — future — don't  throw  it  away!  Don't  let  me 
take  that  twelve-o'clock  train!" 

There  were  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  and 
her  lips,  so  carefully  firm,  were  beginning  to  tremble. 
"You  can't  blame  a  girl,  Sam,  for  wanting  to  provide 
for  her  future.  Can  you,  Sam?  Think  it  over. 
Please!  I'll  be  praying  when  eleven  o'clock  comes 
to-morrow  morning  for  you  to  telephone  me.  Please, 
Sam— think!" 

He  dropped  his  face  low,  lower  toward  the  table, 
trembling  under  the  red  wave  that  surged  over  him 
and  up  into  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "I'll  think  it  over, 
Clara — my  girl — my  own  girl!" 

> 

As  if  the  moments  themselves  had  been  woven 
by  her  flying  amber  needles  into  a  whole  cloth  of 
meditation,  Mrs.  Lipkind,  beside  a  kitchen  lamp 
that  flowed  in  gracious  light,  knitted  the  long,  quiet 
hours  of  her  evening  into  fabric,  her  face  screwed 
and  out  of  repose  and  occasionally  the  lips  moving. 
Age  is  prone  to  that.  Memories  love  to  be  mumbled 
and  chewed  over — the  unconscious  kind  of  articula- 
tion which  comes  with  the  years  and  for  which 
youth  has  a  wink  and  a  quirk. 

A  tiger  cat  with  overfed  sides  and  a  stare  that 
seemed  to  doze  purred  on  the  window-ledge,  gold 
and  unswerving  of  eye.  The  silence  was  like  the 
singing  inside  of  a  shell,  and  into  it  rocked  Mrs. 
Lipkind. 

249 


HUMORESQUE 

By  nine  o'clock  she  was  already  glancing  up  at 
the  clock,  cocking  her  head  to  each  and  every  of 
night's  creaks. 

By  half  after  nine  there  were  small  and  frequent 
periods  of  peering  through  cupped  hands  down  into 
a  street  so  remote  that  its  traffic  had  neither  shape 
nor  identity.  Once  she  went  down  a  long  slit  of 
hallway  to  the  front  door,  opening  it  and  gazing 
out  upon  a  fog-filled  corridor  that  was  papered  in 
embossed  leatherette,  one  speckled  incandescent 
bulb  lighting  it  sadly.  There  was  something  im- 
pregnable, even  terrible  to  her  in  the  featureless 
stare  of  the  doors  of  three  adjoining  apartments. 
She  tiptoed,  almost  ran,  poor  dear!  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  some  one  at  her  heels,  back  to  the 
kitchen,  where  at  least  was  the  warm  print  of  the 
cat's  presence;  fell  to  knitting  again,  clacking  her 
needles  for  the  solace  of  explainable  sound. 

Identically  with  the  round  moment  of  ten  Mr. 
Lipkind  entered,  almost  running  down  the  hallway. 

"Hello,  ma!  Think  I  got  lost?  Just  got  to  talk- 
ing and  didn't  realize.  Haven't  been  worried,  ma? 
Afraid?" 

She  lifted  her  head  from  his  kiss.  "'Afraid!' 
What  you  take  me  for?  For  why  should  I  be  wor- 
ried at  only  ten  o'clock?  Say,  I'm  glad  if  you  stay 
out  for  recreation." 

He  kissed  her  again,  shaking  out  of  his  coat  and 
unwinding  his  muffler.  "I  could  just  see  you  walk- 
ing the  floor  and  looking  out  of  the  window." 

"Sa-y,  I  been  so  busy  all  evening  I  didn't  have 
time  to  think.  I'm  not  such  a  worrier  no  more 

250 


A   BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

like  I  used  to  be.  Like  the  saying  is — life  is  too 
short." 

He  drew  up  beside  her,  lifting  her  needles  off  her 
work.  "Little  sweetheart  mamma,  why  don't  you 
sit  on  the  big  sofa  in  the  front  room  where  it's  more 
comfortable?" 

"You  can't  make,  Sammy,  out  of  a  pig's  ear  a 
silk  stocking." 

He  would  detain  her  hands,  his  eyes  puckered  and, 
so  intent  upon  her. 

"You  had  a  good  time,  Sammy?" 

"You'd  be  surprised,  ma,  what  a  nice  place  Clara 
boards  at." 

"What  did  they  have  to  eat?     Good  cooking?" 

"Not  for  a  fellow  that's  used  to  my  boarding- 
house." 

"What?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  if  it  was  soup  or  finger-bowls  they 
served  for  the  first  course." 

"I  know — stylish  broth.  Let  me  warm  you  up  a 
little  of  my  thick  barley  soup  that's  left  over  from — " 

He  pressed  her  down.  "Please,  ma!  I'm  full  up. 
I  couldn't.  They  had  pink  ice-cream,  too,  with 
pink  cake  and — 

"Such  mess-food  what  is  bad  for  you.  I'm  sur- 
prised how  Clara  keeps  her  good  complexion.  Let 
me  fix  you  some  fried — " 

"Ma,  I  tell  you  I  couldn't.  It's  ten  o'clock. 
You  mustn't  try  to  fatten  me  up  so.  In  war-time  a 
man  has  got  to  be  lean." 

She  sat  back  suddenly  and  whitely  quiet.  ' '  That's 
— twice  already  to-day,  Sam,  you  talk  like  that." 

251 


HUMORESQUE 

He  took  up  her  lax  hand,  moving  each  separate 
finger  up  and  down,  eyes  lowered.  "Why  not? 
Doesn't  it  ever  strike  you,  mamma,  that  you  and  me 
are — are  kidding  ourselves  along  on  this  war  busi- 
ness, pretending  to  each  other  there  ain't  no  war?" 

She  laid  a  quick  hand  to  her  breast.  "What  you 
mean,  Sammy?" 

"Why,  you  know  what  I  mean,  ma.  I  notice  you 
read  the  war  news  pretty  closely,  all  right." 

"Sammy,  you  mean  something!" 

"Now,  ma,  there's  no  need  to  get  excited  right 
away.  Think  of  the  mothers  who  haven't  even  got 
bank-accounts  whose  sons  have  got  to  go." 

"Sammy — you  'ain't  been — " 

"No,  no;   I  haven't." 

"You  have!  I  can  see  it  in  your  face!  You've 
come  home  with  some  news  to  break.  You  been 
drafted!" 

He  held  her  arms  to  her  sides,  still  pressing  her 
down  to  her  chair.  "I  tell  you  I  haven't!  Can't 
you  take  my  word  for  it?" 

"Swear  to  me,  Sammy!" 

"All  right;   I  swear." 

"Swear  to  me  on  your  dead  father  who  is  an  angel 
in  heaven!" 

"I  swear — thataway." 

She  was  still  pressing  against  her  breathing. 
"You're  keeping  something  back.  Sammy,  is  it  that 
we  got  mail  from  Germany?  From  Aunt  Carrie? 
Bad  news—  O  my  God!" 

"No!  No!  Who  could  I  get  mail  from  there  any 
more  than  you've  been  getting  it  for  the  last  two 

252 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

years?  Mamma,  if  you're  going  to  be  this  excitable 
and  get  yourself  sick,  I  won't  talk  over  anything 
with  you.  I'll  quit." 

"You  got  something,  Sammy,  to  break  to  me. 
I  can  read  you  like  a  book." 

"I'm  done.  If  I  can't  talk  facts  over  with  you 
without  your  going  to  pieces  this  way,  I'm  done. 
I  quit." 

She  clasped  her  hands,  her  face  pleading  up  to 
him.  "Sammy,  what  is  it?  If  you  don't  tell  me, 
I  can't  stand  it.  Sammy?" 

"Will  you  sit  quiet  and  not  get  excited?" 

"Please,  Sammy,  I  will." 

"It's  this:  you  see,  ma,  the  way  the  draft  goes. 
When  a  fellow's  called  to  war,  drafted,  he's  got  to 
go,  no  questions  asked.  But  when  a  fellow  enlists 
for  war,  volunteers,  you  see,  before  the  government 
calls  him,  then  thataway  he  can  pick  out  for  himself 
the  thing  he  wants  to  be  in  the  army.  Y'see? 
And  then  maybe  the  thing  he  picks  out  for  himself 
can  keep  him  right  here  at  home.  Y'see,  ma — so 
he  don't  have  to  go  away.  See  the  point?" 

"You  mean  when  a  boy  enlists  he  offers  himself 
instead  of  gets  offered." 

"Exactly." 

"You  got  something  behind  all  this.  You  mean 
you — you  want  to  enlist." 

"Now,  ma — you  see,  if  I  was  to  enlist — and  stay 
right  here  in  this  country — with  you  near  the  camp 
or,  as  long  as  it's  too  rough  life  for  you,  with — with 
Clara  there — a  woman  to  look  in  on — " 

"Sammy — you  mean  it's  enlistment!" 
253 


HUMORESQUE 

Her  voice  rose  in  velocity ;  he  could  feel  her  pulse 
run  beneath  his  fingers. 

"It's  the  best  way,  ma.  The  draft  is  sure  to  get 
me.  Let  me  beat  it  and  keep  myself  home — near 
you.  We  might  as  well  face  the  music,  ma.  They'll 
get  me  one  way  or  another.  Let  me  enlist  now, 
ma.  Like  a  man.  Right  away.  For  my  country!" 

Do  you  know  the  eyes  of  Bellini's  "Agony  in  a 
Garden"?  Can  you  hear  for  yourself  the  note  that 
must  have  been  Cassandra's  when  she  shouted  out 
her  forebodings?  There  were  these  now  in  the  glance 
and  voice  of  Mrs.  Lipkind  as  she  drew  back  from 
him,  her  face  actually  seeming  to  shrivel. 

"No,  Sammy!     No!     No!     No!" 

"Ma— please- 

4 'You  wouldn't!  You  couldn't!  No,  Sammy— 
my  son!" 

"Ma,  for  God's  sake  don't  go  on  so!" 

"  Thenx tell  me  you  wouldn't!  Against  your  own 
flesh  and  blood!  Tell  me  you  wouldn't!" 

"No,  no,  ma!  For  God's  sake,  don't  take  a  fit — 
a  stroke — no,  no;  I  wouldn't — I  wouldn't!" 

"Your  own  blood,  Sammy!  Your  own  baby 
cousins  what  I  tucked  you  in  bed  with — mine  own 
sister's  children!  Her  babies  what  slept  with  you. 
Mine  own  sister  who  raised  me  and  worked  down 
her  hands  to  the  bone  to  make  it  so  with  my  young 
husband  and  baby  we  could  come  to  America — no — 
no!" 

"Mamma,  for  God's  sakes — " 

"Three  years  like  a  snake  here  inside  of  it's  eating 
tne — all  night — all  day —  I'm  a  good  American, 


A    BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

Sammy;  I  got  so  much  I  should  be  thankful  for  to 
America.  Twenty -five  years  it's  my  home,  the  home 
where  I  had  prosperity  and  good  treatment,  the  home 
where  I  had  happiness  with  your  papa  and  where  he 
lies  buried,  but  I  can't  give  you  to  fight  against  my 
own,  Sammy — to  be  murdered  by  your  own — my 
sister  what  never  in  her  life  harmed  a  bird — my  child 
and  her  children — cousins — against  each  other.  My 
beautiful  country  what  I  remember  with  cows  and 
green  fields  and  clover — always  the  smell  of  clover. 
It  ain't  human  to  murder  against  your  own  flesh  and 
blood  for  God  knows  what  reason!" 

"Mamma,  there  is  a  reason  it — " 

"I  tell  you  I'm  a  good  American,  Sammy.  For 
America  I  give  my  last  cent,  but  not  to  stick  knives 
in  my  own — it  ain't  human —  Why  didn't  I  die 
before  we  got  war?  What  good  am  I  here?  In  my 
boy's  way  for  his  country — his  marriage — his  happi- 
ness— why  don't  I  die?" 

"Ma,  I  tell  you  you  mustn't!  You're  making 
yourself  sick.  Let  me  fan  you.  Here,  ma,  I  didn't 
mean  it.  See — I'm  holding  you  tight.  I  won't 
never  let  go.  You're  my  little  sweetheart  mamma. 
You  mustn't  tremble  like  that.  I'm  holding  you 
tight — tight — little  mamma." 

"My  boy!    My  little  boy!    My  son!    My  all! 
All  in  their  bed  together.     Three.     Her  two.     Mine. 
The    smell    of    clover — my  boy — Sammy — Sam — 
She  fainted  back  into  his  arms  suddenly,  very  white 
and  very  quiet  and  very  shriveled. 

He  watched  beside  her  bed  the  next  five  hours  of 
the  night,  his  face  so  close  above  hers  that,  when 

255 


HUMORESQUE 

she  opened  her  eyes,  his  were  merged  into  one  for 
her,  and  the  clasp  of  his  hand  never  left  hers. 

"You  all  right,  ma?  Sure?  Sure  you  don't  need 
the  doctor?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  tired,  a  burned-out, 
an  ashamed  smile.  "The  first  time  in  my  life, 
Sammy,  such  a  thing  ever  happened  to  me." 

He  pressed  a  chain  of  close  kisses  to  the  back 
of  her  hand,  his  voice  far  from  firm.  "It  was  me, 
ma.  I'll  never  forgive  myself.  My  little  mamma, 
my  little  mamma  sweetheart!" 

"I  feel  fine,  son;  only,  with  you  sitting  here  all 
night,  you  don't  let  me  sleep  for  worry  that  you  ain't 
in  bed." 

"I  love  it.  I  love  to  sit  here  by  you  and  watch 
you  sleep.  You're  sure  you've  no  fever?  Sure?" 

"I'm  well,  Sammy.  It  was  nothing  but  what  you 
call  a  fainting-fit.  For  some  women  it's  nothing 
that  they  should  faint  every  time  they  get  a  little 
bit  excited.  It's  nothing.  Feel  my  hands — how 
cool!  That's  always  a  sign — coolness." 

He  pressed  them  both  to  his  lips,  blowing  his  warm 
breath  against  them. 

"There  now — go  to  sleep." 

The  night-light  burning  weakly,  the  great  black- 
walnut  bedstead  ponderous  in  the  gloom,  she  lay 
there  mostly  smiling  and  always  shamefaced. 

"Such  a  thing  should, happen  to  me  at  my  age!" 

"Try  to  sleep,  ma." 

"Go  in  your  room  to  bed,  and  then  I  get  sleep. 
Do  you  want  your  own  clerks  should  beat  you  to 
business  to-morrow?" 

256 


A   BOOB   SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"A  little  whisky?" 

"Go  away;  you  got  me  dosed  up  enough  with 
such  Schnapps." 

"The  light  lower?" 

"No.  If  you  don't  go  in  your  room,  I  lay  here 
all  night  with  my  eyes  open,  so  help  me!" 

He  rose,  stiff  and  sore-kneed,  hair  awry,  and  his 
eyes  with  the  red  rims  of  fatigue.  "You'll  sure  ring 
the  little  bell  if  you  want  anything,  ma?" 

"Sure." 

"You  promise  you  won't  get  up  to  fix  breakfast." 

"If  I  don't  feel  good,  I  let  you  fix  mine." 

"Good  night,  little  sweetheart  mamma." 

"You  ain't — mad  at  me,  Sam?" 

"Mad!  Why,  ma,  you  mustn't  ask  me  a — a  thing 
like  that;  it  just  kills  me  to  hear  you.  Me  that's 
not  even  fit  to  black  your  shoes!  Mad  at  you? 
Why,  I — I —  Good  night — good — night — ma." 

At  just  fifteen  minutes  before  seven,  to  the 
pungency  of  coffee  and  the  harsh  sing  of  water  across 
the  hall,  Mrs.  Lipkind  in  a  fuzzy  wrapper  the  color 
of  her  eyes  and  hair,  kissed  her  son  awake. 

"Sam!  Sammy!  Get  up!  Thu,  thu!  I  can't 
get  him  up  in  the  morning!" 

The  snuggle  away  and  into  the  crotch  of  his  elbow. 

"Sam-my — quarter  to  seven!" 

He  sprang  up  then,  haggard,  but  in  a  flood  of 
recollection  and  remorse.  "Ma,  I  must  'a'  dropped 
off  at  the  last  minute.  You  all  right?  What  are 
you  doing  up?  Go  right  back!  Didn't  I  tell  you  not 
to  get  up?" 

2S7 


HUMORESQUE 

"I  been  up  an  hour  already;  that's  how  fine  I 
feel.  Get  up,  Sammy;  it's  late." 

He  flung  on  his  robe,  trying  to  withdraw  her  from 
the  business  of  looping  back  the  bed-clothing  over 
-the  foot-board  and  pounding  into  the  pillows. 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it !  You  got  to  lay  in  bed 
this  morning." 

"I'm  all  right,  Sammy.  Wouldn't  I  say  so  if  I 
wasn't?"  But  she  sat  down  rather  weakly  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  holding  the  right  side  of  her.  breath- 
ing too  hard. 

"I — I  shouldn't  have  beat  that  pillow  is  all.  Let 
me  get  my  breathing.  I'm  all  right."  Neverthe- 
less, she  let  him  relax  her  to  his  pillow,  draw  the 
covers  down  from  the  footboard,  and  cover  her. 

"This  settles  it,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I'm  going 
to  get  a  doctor." 

She  caught  his  hand.  "If — if  you  want  to  get 
me  excited  for  sure,  just  you  call  a  doctor — now — 
before  I  talk  with  you  a  minute — I  want  to  talk — 
I'm  all  right,  Sammy,  if  you  let  me  talk  to  you.  One 
step  to  that  telephone,  and  I  get  excited — " 

"Please,  ma—" 

"Sammy?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  listen  to  me  and  do  like  I  want  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I — been  a  bad  old  woman." 

"That's  right— break  my  heart." 

"I  got  a  brave  boy  for  a  son,  and  I  want  to  make 
from  him  a  coward." 

"Ma— please!" 

258 


A   BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

"I  laid  saying  to  myself  all  night,  a  mother  should 
have  such  a  son  like  mine  and  make  things  hard 
for  him  yet!" 

"Please,  get  it  all  out  of  your  head — " 

"From  America  what  has  given  to  me  everything 
I  should  hold  back  my  son  from  righting  for.  In 
war,  it  ain't  your  own  flesh  and  blood  what  counts; 
it's  the  flesh  and  blood  of  your  country — not,  Sam? 
I  been  thinking  only  it's  my  family  affair.  If  God 
lets  be  such  a  terrible  thing  like  war,  there  is  some- 
where a  good  reason  for  it.  I  want  you  to  enlist, 
Sammy,  for  your  country.  Not  for  in  an  office,  but 
for  where  they  need  you.  I  want  you  to  enlist  to 
get  some  day  to  be  such  a  lieutenant  and  a  captain 
like  you  used  to  play  it  with  tin  soldiers.  I  want — 

"Mamma,  mamma,  you  know  you  don't  mean  it!" 

"I  want  it,  I  tell  you.  All  night  I  worked  on  it 
how  dumb  I've  been,  not  right  away  to  see  it — last 
night.  With  Clara  near  you  in  the  camp — " 

"Ma,  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way;  I — " 

"Clara  near  you  for  a  woman  to  look  in  on,  I 
been  so  dumb  not  to  right  away  see  it.  I'm  glad 
you  let  it  out,  Sam.  I  wouldn't  take  five  thousand 
dollars  it  didn't  happen —  I  feel  fine — I  want  it — 
I—' 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  ma — I  swear!  Don't  rub  it  in 
this  way — please — please — " 

"Why,  I  never  wanted  anything  in  my  life  like 
I  want  this,  Sammy — that  you  should  enlist — a 
woman  to  look  in  on — I  been  a  bad  woman,  Sammy, 
I— I— oh— " 

It  was  then  that  Mr.  Lipkind  tore  to  the  telephone, 
259 


HUMORESQUE 

his  hands  so  frenzied  that  they  would  not  properly 
hold  the  receiver. 

At  eight  o'clock,  and  without  even  a  further  word, 
Mrs.  Lipkind  breathed  out  quietly,  a  little  tiredly, 
and  yet  so  eloquent  of  eye.  To  her  son,  pleading 
there  beside  her  for  the  life  she  had  not  left  to  give, 
it  was  as  if  the  swollen  bosom  of  some  stream  were 
carrying  her  rapidly  but  gently  down  its  surface, 
her  gaze  back  at  him  and  begging  him  to  stay  the 
current. 

"Mamma!  Darling!  Doctor — please — for  God's 
sakes — please — she  wants  something — she  can't  say 
it — give  it  to  her!  Try  to  make  her  tell  me  what 
she  wants — she  wants  something — this  is  terrible — 
don't  let  her  want  something — mamma — just  one 
word  to  me — try — try — O  my  God — Doctor — " 

A  black  arm  then  reached  down  to  withdraw  him 
from  the  glazed  stare  which  had  begun  to  set  in  from 
the  pillow. 

By  ten  o'clock  a  light  snow  had  set  in,  blowing 
almost  horizontally  across  the  window-pane.  He 
sat  his  second  hour  there  in  a  rather  forward  huddle 
beside  the  drawn  shade  of  that  window,  the  sotto- 
voce  comings  and  goings,  all  the  black-coated  par- 
venus that  follow  the  wake  of  death,  moving  about 
him.  A  clock  shaped  like  a  pilot's  wheel,  a  boyhood 
property  which  had  marked  the  time  of  twenty  years, 
finally  chimed  the  thin,  tin  stroke  of  eleven  and  after 
a  swimming,  nebulous  interval,  twelve.  He  glanced 
up  each  time  with  his  swollen  eyes,  and  then  al- 
most automatically  out  to  the  wall  telephone  in  the 
hall  opposite  the  open  door.  But  he  did  not  move. 

260 


A   BOOB    SPELLED    BACKWARD 

In  fact,  for  two  more  hours  sat  there  impervious  to 
proffered  warmth  of  word  or  deed.  Meanwhile,  the 
snow  behind  the  drawn  shade  had  turned  to  rain 
that  beat  and  washed  against  the  pane. 

Just  so  the  iciness  that  had  locked  Samuel  Lipkind 
seemed  suddenly  to  melt  in  a  tornado  of  sobs  that 
swept  him,  felled  him  into  a  prostration  of  the 
terrible  tears  that  men  weep. 

At  a  training-camp — somewhere — from  his  side 
of  a  tent  that  had  flapped  like  a  captive  wing  all 
through  a  wind-swept  night,  Lieutenant  Lipkind 
stirred  rather  painfully  for  a  final  snuggle  into  the 
crotch  of  an  elbow  that  was  stiff  with  chill  and 
night  damp. 

Out  over  the  peaked  city  that  had  been  pitched 
rather  than  built,  and  on  beyond  over  the  frozen 
stubble  of  fields,  sounded  the  bugle-cry  of  the  reveille, 
which  shrills  so  potently: 

I  can't  get  'em  up;  I  can't  get  'em  up; 
I  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  mom — ing! 


EVEN    AS   YOU   AND    I 

"PHERE  is  an  intensity  about  September  noonday 
•I  on  Coney  Island,  aided  and  abetted  by  tin  roofs, 
metallic  facades,  gilt  domes,  looking-glass  fronts, 
jeweled  spires,  screaming  peanut-  and  frankfurter- 
stands,  which  has  not  its  peculiar  kind  of  equal  this 
side  of  opalescent  Tangiers.  Here  the  sea  air  can 
become  a  sort  of  hot  camphor-ice  to  the  cheek,  the 
sea  itself  a  percolator,  boiling  up  against  a  glass 
surface.  Beneath  the  tin  roofs  of  Ocean  Avenue  the 
indoor  heat  takes  on  the  kind  of  intense  density 
that  is  cotton  in  the  mouth  and  ringing  in  the  ears. 
At  one  o'clock  the  jibberwock  exteriors  of  Ocean 
Avenue  begin  fantastic  signs  of  life.  The  House  of 
Folly  breaks  out,  over  its  entire  f agade,  into  a  chicken- 
pox  of  red  and  green,  blue  and  purple,  yellow,  violet, 
and  gold  electric  bulbs.  The  Ocean  Waves  con- 
cession begins  its  side-splitting  undulations.  Maha 
Mahadra,  India's  foremost  soothsayer  (down  in 
police,  divorce,  and  night  courts  as  Mamie  Jones, 
May  Costello,  and  Mabel  Brown,  respectively),  loops 
back  her  spangled  portiere.  The  Baby  Incubator 
slides  open  its  ticket-windows.  Five  carousals  begin 
to  whang.  A  row  of  hula-hula  girls  in  paper  neck- 
laces appears  outside  of  "Hawaii,"  gelatinously 

262 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

naughty  and  insinuating  of  hip.  There  begins  a 
razzling  of  the  razzle-dazzle.  Shooting-galleries  be- 
gin to  snipe  into  the  glittering  noon,  and  the  smell 
of  hot  spiced  sausages  and  stale  malt  to  lay  on  the 
air. 

Before  the  Palace  of  Freaks,  a  barker  slanted  up 
his  megaphone,  baying  to  the  sun: 

"Y-e-a-o-u!  Y-e-a-o-u!  The  greatest  show  on 
the  Island!  Ten  cents  to  see  the  greatest  freak  con- 
gress in  the  world.  Shapiro's  freaks  are  gathered 
from  every  corner  of  the  universe.  Enter  and  shake 
hands  with  Baron  de  Ross,  the  children's  delight, 
the  world's  smallest  human  being;  age,  forty-two 
years,  eight  months;  height,  twenty-eight  inches; 
weight,  fourteen  and  one-half  pounds,  certified 
scales.  Enter  and  see  the  original  and  only  authentic 
Siamese  Twins !  The  Ossified  Man !  You  are  cord- 
ially invited  to  stick  pins  into  this  mystery  of  the 
whole  medical  world.  Jastrow,  the  world's  most 
famous  strong  man  and  glass-eater,  will  perform 
his  world-startling  feats.  Show  about  to  begin! 
Our  glass-eater  eats  glass,  not  rock  candy — any  one 
doubting  same  can  sample  it  first.  We  have  on  view 
within,  and  all  included  in  your  ten-cents  admission, 
the  famous  Teenie,  absolutely  the  heaviest  woman 
in  captivity.  We  guarantee  Teenie  to  tip  the  certi- 
fied scales  at  five  hundred  and  fifty-five,  a  weight 
unsurpassed  by  any  of  the  heavyweights  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  show  business.  Come  in  and  fox-trot 
with  Teenie,  the  world  wonder.  Come  in  and  fox- 
trot with  her.  Show  begins  immediately.  Y-e-a-o-u ! 
Y-e-a-o-u!" 
18  263 


HUMORESQUE 

Within  the  Palace  of  Freaks,  her  platform  ele- 
vated and  railed  in  against  the  unduly  curious,  Miss 
Luella  Hoag,  all  that  she  was  so  raucously  purported 
to  be,  sat  back  in  her  chair,  as  much  in  the  attitude 
of  relaxing  as  her  proportions  would  permit. 

There  is  no  way  in  which  I  can  hope  to  salve 
your  offended  estheticisms  with  any  of  Miss  Hoag's 
better  points.  What  matters  it  that  her  skin  was 
not  without  the  rich  quality  of  cream  too  thick 
to  pour,  when  her  arms  fairly  dimpled  and  billowed 
of  this  creaminess,  and  above  her  rather  small 
ankles  her  made-to-order  red-satin  shoes  bulged 
over  of  it,  the  low-cut  bosom  of  her  red  and  sequin 
dress  was  a  terrific  expanse  of  it,  her  hands  small 
cushions  of  it,  her  throat  quivery,  and  her  walk 
a  waddle  with  it.  All  but  her  face;  it  was  as  if  the 
suet-like  inundation  of  the  flesh  had  not  dared  here. 
The  chin  was  only  slightly  doubled;  the  cheeks 
just  a  shade  too  plump.  Neither  was  the  eye 
heavy  of  lid  or  sunk  down  behind  a  ridge  of  cheek. 
Between  her  eyes  and  upper  lip,  Miss  Hoag  looked 
her  just-turned  twenty;  beyond  them,  she  was  ante- 
diluvian, deluged,  smothered  beneath  the  creamy 
billows  and  billows  of  self. 

And  yet,  sunk  there  like  a  flower-seed  planted 
too  deeply  to  push  its  way  up  to  bloom,  the  twenty- 
year-old  heart  of  Miss  Hoag  beat  beneath  its  car- 
bonaceous layer  upon  layer,  even  skipped  a  beat 
at  spring's  palpitating  sweetness,  dared  to  dream 
of  love,  weep  of  desire,  ache  of  loneliness  and  love- 
liness. 

Isolated  thus  by  the  flesh,  the  spirit,  too,  had  been 
264 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

caught  in  nature's  sebaceous  trick  upon  Miss  Hoag. 
Life  had  passed  her  by  slimly.  But  Miss  Hoag's 
redundancy  was  not  all  literal.  A  sixth  and  saving 
sense  of  humor  lay  like  a  coating  of  tallow  protecting 
the  surface  of  her.  For  nature's  vagary,  she  was 
pensioned  on  life's  pay-roll  at  eighteen  dollars  a 
week. 

"Easy  money,  friends,"  Miss  Hoag  would  ad  lib. 
to  the  line-up  outside  her  railing;  "how  would  some 
of  you  like  to  sit  back  and  draw  your  wages  just 
for  the  color  of  your  hair  or  the  size  of  your  shoes? 
You  there,  that  sailor  boy  down  there,  how'd  you 
like  to  have  a  fox-trot  with  Teenie?  Something  to 
tell  the  Jackies  about.  Come  on,  Jack  Tar,  I'm 
light  on  my  feet,  but  I  won't  guarantee  what  I'll 
be  on  yours.  Step  up  and  have  a  round." 

Uusually  the  crowd  would  turn  sheepish  and  dis- 
solve at  this  Terpischorean  threat.  In  fact,  it  was 
Miss  Hoag's  method  of  accomplishing  just  that. 

In  the  August  high  noon  of  the  Coney  Island  Freak 
Palace,  which  is  the  time  and  scene  of  my  daring 
to  introduce  to  you  the  only  under-thirty-years, 
and  over-one-hundred-and-thirty-pounds,  heroine  in 
the  history  of  fiction,  the  megaphone's  catch  of  the 
day's  first  dribble  of  humanity  and  inhumanity  had 
not  yet  begun  its  staring,  gaping  invasion. 

A  curtain  of  heat  that  was  almost  tangible  hung 
from  the  glass  roof.  The  Ossified  Man,  sworn  by 
clause  of  contact  impervious  alike  to  heat  and  cold, 
urged  his  reclining  wheel-chair  an  imperceptible  inch 
toward  the  neighboring  sway  of  Miss  Hoag's  palm- 
leaf.  She  widened  its  arc,  subtly, 

265 


HUMORESQUE 

"Ain't  it  a  fright?"  she  said. 

"Sacred  Mother  of  the  Sacred  Child!"  said  the 
Ossified  Man,  in  a  patois  of  very  south  Italy. 

Then  Miss  Hoag  turned  to  the  right,  a  rail  par- 
titioning her  from  the  highly  popular  spectacle  of 
the  Baron  de  Ross,  christened,  married,  and  to  be 
buried  by  his  nomenclature  in  disuse,  Edwin  Ross 
Mac  Gregor. 

"Hot,  honey?" 

The  Baron,  in  a  toy  rocker  that  easily  contained 
him,  turned  upon  Miss  Hoag  a  face  so  anachronistic 
that  the  senses  reeled  back.  An  old  face,  as  if  carved 
out  of  a  paleolithic  cherry-stone;  the  years  furrowed 
in;  the  eyes  as  if  they  had  seen,  without  marveling, 
the  light  of  creation;  even  the  hands,  braceleted  in 
what  might  have  been  portiere-rings,  leanly  pre- 
hensile. When  the  Baron  spoke,  his  voice  was  not 
unlike  the  middle  C  of  an  old  harpsichord  whose 
wires  long  since  had  rusted  and  died.  He  was  frock- 
coated  like  a  clergyman  or  a  park  statue  of  a 
patriot. 

Of  face,  a  Chaldean  sire;  of  dress,  a  miniature 
apotheosis  of  the  tailor's  art;  of  form,  a  paleolithic 
child. 

"Blow  me  to  a  ice-cream  cone?  Gowann,  Teenie, 
have  a  heart!" 

Miss  Hoag  billowed  into  silent  laughter.  "Little 
devil!  That's  six  you've  sponged  off  me  this  week, 
you  little  whipper-snapper!" 

The  Baron  screwed  up  into  the  tightest  of  grimaces. 

"Nice  Teenie — nice  old  Teenie!" 

She  tossed  him  a  coin  from  the  small  saucerful 
266 


of  them  on  the  table  beside  her.    He  caught  it  with 
the  simian  agility  of  his  tiny  hands. 

"Nice  Teenie!    Nice  old  Teenie!" 

A  first  group  had  strolled  up,  indolent  and  insolent 
at  the  spectacle  of  them. 

"Photographs!  Photographs!  Take  the  folks 
back  home  a  signed  photograph  of  Teenie — only 
ten  cents,  one  dime.  Give  the  kiddies  a  treat — 
signed  photograph  of  little  Teenie!" 

She  would  solicit  thus,  canorous  of  phrase,  a  fan 
of  her  cardboard  likenesses  held  out,  invitational. 

Occasionally  there  were  sales,  the  coins  rattling 
down  into  the  china  saucer  beside  her;  oftener  a 
mere  bombardment  of  insolence  and  indolence,  oc- 
casionally a  question. 

This  day  from  a  motorman,  loitering  in  uniform 
between  runs,  "Say,  skinnay,  whatcha  weigh?" 

Whatever  of  living  tissue  may  have  shrunk  and 
quivered  deep  beneath  the  surface  of  Miss  Hoag 
was  further  insulated  by  a  certain  professional  pride 
— that  of  the  champion  middleweight  for  his  cauli- 
flower ear,  of  the  beauty  for  the  tiny  mole  where  her 
neck  is  whitest,  the  ballerina  for  her  double  joints. 

"Wanna  come  up  and  dance  with  me  and  find 
out?" 

"O  Lord!" — receding  from  the  crowd  and  its  trail 
of  laughter.  "O  Lord!  Excuse  me.  Good  night!" 

A  CHILD:    Missus,  is  all  of  you  just  one  lady? 

"Bless  your  heart,  little  pettie,  they  gimme  a  good 
measure,  didn't  they?  Here's  a  chocolate  drop  for 
the  little  pettie." 

"Come  away!    Don't  take  nothing  from  her!" 
267 


HUMORESQUE 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  your  little  girl,  lady.  I  wouldn't 
harm  a  pretty  hair  of  her  head;  I  love  the  kiddies." 

"Good-by,  missus." 

"Good-by,  little  pettie." 

A  MAN:  Say,  was  you  born  in  captivity — in  this 
line  o*  work,  I  mean? 

"Law,  no,  friend!  I  never  seen  the  light  of  the 
show  business  up  to  eight  year  ago.  There  wasn't 
a  member  of  my  family,  all  dead  and  put  away  now, 
weighed  more  'n  one-fifty.  They  say  it  of  my  mother, 
she  was  married  at  ninety  pounds  and  died  at  a 
hundred  and  six." 

"You  don't  say  so." 

"I  was  born  and  raised  on  a  farm  out  in  Ohio. 
Bet  not  far  from  your  part  of  the  country,  from  the 
looks  of  you,  friend.  Buckeye?" 

"Not  a  bad  guess  at  that — Indiana's  mine." 

"Law!  to  my  way  of  thinking,  there's  no  part  of 
the  Union  got  anything  on  the  Middle  States.  Knock 
me  around  all  you  want,  I  always  say,  but  let  me 
be  buried  in  the  Buckeye  State.  Photographs? 
Signed  photographs  at  ten  cents  each.  Take  one 
home  to  the  wife,  friend,  out  in  Indiana.  Come, 
friends,  what's  a  dime?  Ten  cents!" 

The  crowd,  treacle-slow,  and  swinging  its  children 
shoulder-high,  would  shuffle  on,  pause  next  at  the 
falsetto  exhortations  of  the  Baron,  then  on  to  the 
collapsibilities  of  the  Boneless  Wonder,  the  flexu- 
osities  of  the  Snake-charmer,  the  goose-fleshing,  the 
terrible  crunching  of  Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw.  A 
commotion,  this  last,  not  unlike  the  steam-roller 
leveling  of  a  rock  road. 

268 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

Miss  Hoag  retired  then  back  to  her  chair,  read- 
justing the  photographs  to  their  table  display,  wield- 
ing her  fan  largely. 

"Lord!"  she  said,  across  the  right  railing, 
"wouldn't  this  weather  fry  you!" 

The  Baron  wilted  to  a  mock  swoon,  his  little  legs 
stiffening  at  a  hypotenuse. 

"Ice-cream  cone!"  he  cried.  "Ice-cream  cone,  or 
I  faint!" 

"Poor  Jastrow!  Just  listen  to  him!  Honest,  that 
grinding  goes  right  through  me.  He  hadn't  ought  to 
be  showing  to-day,  after  the  way  they  had  to  have 
the  doctor  in  on  him  last  night.  He  hadn't  ought  to 
be  eating  that  nasty  glass." 

"Ain't  it  awful,  Mabel!" 

"Yes,  it's  awful,  Mabel!  A  fellow  snagging  up 
his  insides  like  Jastrow.  I  never  knew  a  glass- 
eating  artist  in  my  life  that  lived  to  old  age.  I 
was  showing  once  with  a  pair  of  glass-eating  sis- 
ters, the  Twins  Delamar,  as  fine  a  pair  of  girls  as 
ever — " 

"Sure,  the  Delamars — I  know  'em." 

"Remember  the  specialty  they  carried,  stepping 
on  a  piece  of  plate  glass  and  feeding  each  other  with 
the  grounds — " 

"Sure." 

"Well,  I  sat  up  for  three  weeks  running,  with  one 
of  them  girls — the  red-haired  one,  till  she  died  off  of 
sorosis  of  the  liver — " 

"Sure  enough — Lizzie  Delamar!" 

"Lida,  the  other  one,  is  still  carrying  the  act  on 
street-fair  time,  but  it  won't  surprise  me  to  hear  of 

269 


HUMORESQUE 

her  next.  That's  what  '11  happen  to  Granite  Jaw 
one  of  these  days,  too,  if  he — 

"Pretty  soft  on  the  Granite  Jaw,  ain't  cha? 
M-m-n!  Yum-yum!  Pretty  soft!"  When  the  Baron 
mouthed  he  became  in  expression  Punchinello  with 
his  finger  alongside  his  nose,  his  face  tightening  and 
knotting  into  cunning.  "Pretty  soft  on  the  Granite 
Jaw !  Yum — yum — yum ! ' ' 

"Little  devil!  Little  devil!  I'll  catch  you  and 
spank  you  to  death." 

"Yum!    Yum! 

"It's  better  to  have  loved  a  short  man 
Than  never  to  have  loved  atall." 

"Little  peewee,  you!  Jastrow  ain't  short.  Them 
thick,  strong-necked  kind  never  look  their  height. 
That  boy  is  five  feet  two,  if  he's  an  inch.  Them 
stocky  ones  is  the  build  that  make  the  strong  kind. 
Looka  him  lift  up  that  cannon-ball  with  just  his 
left  hand.  B-r-r-r-r!  Listen  how  it  shakes  the  place 
when  he  lets  its  fall!  Looka!  Honest,  it  makes  me 
sick !  It's  a  wonder  he  don't  kill  himself. 

"Better  to  have  loved  a  short  man 
Than  never  to  have  loved  atall." 

The  day,  sun-riddled,  stare-riddled,  sawdusty,  and 
white  with  glare,  slouched  into  the  clanging,  banging, 
electric-pianoed,  electrifying  Babylonia  of  a  Coney 
Island  Saturday  night.  The  erupting  lava  of  a  pent- 
up  work-a-week,  odoriferous  of  strong  foods  and 
wilted  clothing,  poured  hotly  down  that  boulevard  of 
the  bourgeoise,  Ocean  Avenue.  The  slow,  thick  cir- 

270 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

culation  of  six  days  of  pants-pressing  and  boiler-mak- 
ing, of  cigarette-rolling  and  typewriting,  of  machine- 
operating  and  truck-driving,  of  third-floor-backs,  con- 
gestion and  indigestion,  of  depression  and  suppres- 
sion, demanding  the  spurious  kind  of  excitation  that 
can  whip  the  blood  to  foam.  The  terrific  gyration 
of  looping  the  loop.  The  comet-tail  plunge  of  shoot- 
ing the  chutes;  the  rocketing  skyward,  and  the 
delicious  madness  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach  on  the 
downward  swoop.  The  bead  on  the  apple  juice,  the 
dash  of  mustard  to  the  frankfurter,  the  feather  tick- 
ler in  the  eye,  the  barker  to  the  ear,  and  the  thick 
festival-flavored  sawdust  to  the  throat.  By  eleven 
o'clock  the  Freak  Palace  was  a  gelatinous  conges- 
tion of  the  quickened  of  heart,  of  blood,  of  tongue, 
and  of  purse.  The  crowd  stared,  gaped,  squirmed 
through  itself,  sweated. 

By  twelve  o'clock,  from  her  benchlike  throne  that 
had  become  a  strait  jacket  to  the  back,  a  heaviness 
had  set  in  that  seemed  to  thicken  Miss  Hoag's  eye- 
lids, the  flush  receding  before  doughiness. 

A  weary  mountain  of  the  cruelly  enhancing  red 
silk  and  melting  sequin  paste,  the  billowy  arms  in- 
undated with  the  thumb-deep  dimples  lax  out  along 
the  chair-sides,  as  preponderous  and  preposterous 
a  heroine  as  ever  fell  the  lot  of  scribe,  she  was 
nature's  huge  joke — a  practical  joke,  too,  at  eigh- 
teen dollars  a  week,  bank-books  from  three  trust 
companies,  and  a  china  pig  about  ready  to  burst. 

"Cheer  up,  Ossi!  It  might  be  worse,"  she  said 
across  the  left  rail,  but  her  lids  twitching  involun- 
tarily of  tiredness. 

271 


HUMORESQUE 

"Sacred  Mother  of  the  Sacred  Child!"  said  the 
Ossified  Man,  in  Italian. 

The  sword-swallower,  at  the  megaphone  instance 
of  the  barker,  waggled  suddenly  into  motion,  and, 
flouncing  back  her  bushy  knee-skirts  and  kissing 
to  the  four  winds,  threw  back  her  head  and  swallowed 
an  eighteen-inch  carpenter's  saw  to  the  hilt.  The 
crowd  flowed  up  and  around  her. 

Miss  Hoag  felt  on  the  undershelf  of  her  table  for 
a  glass  of  water,  draining  it.  "Thank  God,"  she 
said,  "another  day  done!"  and  began  getting  together 
her  photographs  into  a  neat  packet,  tilting  the 
contents  of  the  saucer  into  a  small  biscuit-tin  and 
snapping  it  around  with  a  rubber  band. 

The  Baron  de  Ross  was  counting,  too,  his  small 
hands  eager  at  the  task.  "This  Island  is  getting  as 
hard-boiled  as  an  egg,"  he  said. 

"It  is  that,"  said  Miss  Hoag,  making  a  pencil  in- 
sert into  a  small  memorandum-book. 

"You!"  cried  the  Baron,  the  screw  lines  out  again. 
"You  money-bag  tied  in  the  middle!  I  know  a 
tattooed  girl  worked  with  you  once  on  the  St.  Louis 
World's  Fair  Pike  says  you  slept  on  a  pillow  stuffed 
with  greenbacks. ' ' 

"You're  crazy  with  the  heat,"  said  Miss  Hoag. 
"What  I've  got  out  of  this  business,  I've  sweated 
for." 

Then  the  Baron  de  Ross  executed  a  pirouette  of 
tiny  self.  "Worth  your  weight  in  gold!  Worth 
your  weight  in  gold!" 

"If  you  don't  behave  yourself,  you  little  pee- 
wee,  I'U  leave  you  to  plow  home  through  the  sand 

272 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

alone.  If  it  wasn't  for  me  playing  nurse-girl  to 
you,  you'd  have  to  be  hiring  a  keeper.  You  better 
behave." 

"Worth  your  weight  in  gold!  Blow  us  to  a  ice- 
cream cone.  Eh,  Ossi?" 

The  crowd  had  sifted  out ;  all  but  one  of  the  center 
aisle  of  grill  arc-lights  flickered  out,  leaving  the  Freak 
Palace  to  a  spluttering  kind  of  gloom.  The  Snake- 
charmer,  of  a  thousand  iridescencies,  wound  the 
last  of  her  devitalized  cobras  down  into  its  painted 
chest.  The  Siamese  Twins  untwisted  out  of  their  em- 
brace and  went  each  his  way.  The  Princess  Albino 
wove  her  cotton  hair  into  a  plait,  finishing  it  with  a 
rapidly  wound  bit  of  thread.  An  attendant  trundled 
the  Ossified  Man  through  a  rear  door.  Jastrow  the 
Granite  Jaw  flopped  on  his  derby,  slightly  askew, 
and  strolled  over  toward  that  same  door,  hands  in 
pocket.  He  was  thewed  like  an  ox.  Short  and  as 
squattily  packed  down  as  a  Buddha,  the  great 
sinews  of  his  strength  bulged  in  his  short  neck  and 
in  the  backs  of  the  calves  of  his  legs,  even  rippled 
beneath  his  coat.  It  was  as  if  a  compress  had  re- 
duced him  from  great  height  down  to  his  tightest 
compactness,  concentrating  the  strength  of  -  him. 
Even  in  repose,  the  undershot  jaw  was  plunged 
forward,  the  jowls  bonily  defined. 

"Worth  her  weight  in  gold!  Blow  us  to  a  ice- 
cream cone.  Eh,  Jastrow?  She's  worth  her  weight 
in  gold." 

Passing  within  reach  of  where  the  Baron  de  Ross 
danced  to  his  ditty  of  reiteration,  Jastrow  the  Granite 
Jaw  reached  up  and  in  through  the  rail,  capturing 

273 


HUMORESQUE 

one  of  the  jiggling  ankles,  elevating  the  figure  of  the 
Baron  de  Ross  to  a  high-flung  torch. 

"Lay  off  that  noise,"  said  Jastrow  the  Granite 
Jaw,  threatening  to  dangle  him  head  downward. 
"Lay  off,  or  I'll  drown  you  like  a  kitten!" 

With  an  agility  that  could  have  swung  him  from 
bough  to  bough,  the  Baron  de  Ross  somersaulted 
astride  the  rear  of  Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw's  great 
neck,  pounding  little  futile  fists  against  the  bulwark 
of  head. 

' '  Leggo  me !    Leggo ! ' ' 

"Gr-r-r-r!  I'll  step  on  you  and  squash  you  like  a 
caterpillar." 

"Don't  hurt  him,  Mr.  Jastrow!  Don't  let  him 
fall  off  backwards.  He  is  so  little.  Teenie  '11  catch 
you  if  you  fall,  honey.  Teenie's  here  in  back  of 
you." 

With  another  double  twist,  the  Baron  de  Ross 
somersaulted  backward  off  the  shoulder  of  his  cap- 
tor, landing  upright  in  the  outstretched  skirts  of 
Miss  Hoag. 

"Yah,  yah!"  he  cried,  dancing  in  the  net  of  skirt 
and  waggling  his  hands  from  his  ears.  "Yah,  yah!" 

The  Granite  Jaw  smoothed  down  the  outraged 
rear  of  his  head,  eyes  rolling  and  smile  terrible 

"Wow!"  he  said,  making  a  false  feint  toward  him. 

The  Baron,  shrill  with  hysteria,  plunged  into  a 
fold  of  Miss  Hoag's  skirt. 

"Don't  hurt  him,  Jastrow.  He's  so  awful  little! 
Don't  play  rough." 

THE  BARON  (projecting  his  face  around  a  fold  of 
skirt) :  Worth  her  weight  in  go-uld — go-uld ! 

274 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

"He's  always  guying  me  for  my  saving  ways, 
Jastrow.  I  tell  him  I  'ain't  got  no  little  twenty-eight- 
inch  wife  out  in  San  Francisco  sending  me  pin-money. 
Neither  am  I  the  prize  little  grafter  of  the  world. 
I  tell  him  he's  the  littlest  man  and  the  biggest  grafter 
in  this  show.  Come  out  of  there,  you  little  devil! 
He  thinks  because  I  got  a  few  hundred  dollars  laid 
by  I'm  a  bigger  freak  than  the  one  I  get  paid  for 
being. " 

Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw  flung  the  crook  of  his 
walking-stick  against  his  hip,  leaning  into  it,  the 
flanges  of  his  nostrils  widening  a  bit,  as  if  scenting. 

"You  old  mountain-top,"  he  said,  screwing  at  the 
up-curving  mustache,  "who'd  have  thought  you  had 
that  pretty  a  penny  saved?" 

"I  don't  look  to  see  myself  live  and  die  in  the 
show  business,  Mr.  Jastrow." 

"Now  you  said  something,  Big  Tent." 

"There's  a  farm  out  near  Xenia,  Ohio,  where  I 
lay  up  in  winter,  that  I'm  going  to  own  for  myself 
one  of  these  days.  I've  seen  too  many  in  this  busi- 
ness die  right  in  exhibition,  and  the  show  have  to 
chip  in  to  bury  'em,  for  me  not  to  save  up  against 
a  rainy  day." 

"Lay  it  on,  Big  Tent.    I  like  your  philosophy." 

"That's  me  every  time,  Mr.  Jastrow.  I'm  going 
to  die  in  a  little  story-and-a-half  frame  house  of 
my  own  with  a  cute  little  pointy  roof,  a  potato- 
patch  right  up  to  my  back  steps,  and  my  own  white 
Leghorns  crossin*  my  own  country  road  to  get  to  the 
other  side.  Why,  I  know  a  Fat  in  this  business, 
Aggie  Lamont — " 

275 


HUMORESQUE 

"Sure,  me  and  the  Baroness  played  Mexico  City 
Carnival  with  Aggie  Lament.  Some  heavy!" 

"Well,  that  girl,  in  her  day,  was  one  of  the  biggest 
tips  to  the  scale  this  business  ever  seen.  What  hap- 
pens? All  of  a  sudden,  just  like  that — pneumonia! 
Gets  up  out  of  bed,  eight  weeks  later,  skin  and  bones 
— down  to  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  pounds  and 
not  a  penny  saved.  I  chipped  in  what  I  could  to 
keep  her  going,  but  she  just  down  and  died  one  night. 
Job  gone.  No  weight.  In  the  exhibit  business,  just 
like  any  other  line,  you  got  to  have  a  long  head. 
A  Fat's  got  to  look  ahead  for  a  thin  day.  Strong 
for  a  weak  day.  That's  why  I  wish,  Mr.  Jastrow, 
you'd  cut  out  that  glass-eating  feature  of  yours." 

"How  much  you  got,  Airy-Fairy?  Lemme  double 
your  money  for  you!" 

"She's  worth  her  weight  in  gold." 

"Lemme  double  it!" 

"Like  fun  I  will.    A  spendthrift  like  you!" 

"Which  way  you  going?" 

"We  always  go  home  by  the  beach.  Shapiro  made 
it  a  rule  that  the  Bigs  and  Littles  can't  ever  show 
themselves  on  Ocean  Avenue." 

"Come  on,  you  little  flea;  I'll  ride  you  up  the 
beach  on  my  shoulder." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jastrow,  you — you  going  to  walk  home 
with  me — and — Baron?" 

"Come  on  was  what  I  said." 

He  mounted  the  Baron  de  Ross  to  his  bulge  of 
shoulder  with  veriest  toss,  Miss  Hoag,  in  a  multi- 
fold cape  that  was  a  merciful  shroud  to  the  bulk  of 
her,  descending  from  the  platform.  The  place  had 

276 


EVEN   AS    YOU   AND    I 

emptied  itself  of  its  fantastic  congress  of  nature's 
pranks,  only  the  grotesque  print  of  it  remaining. 
The  painted  snake-chests  closed.  The  array  of  gus- 
tatory swords,  each  in  fiannelet  slip-cover.  The 
wild  man's  cage,  empty.  The  tiny  velocipede  of  the 
Baron  de  Ross,  upside  down  against  rust.  A  hall 
of  wonder  here.  A  cave  of  distorted  fancy.  The 
Land  of  the  Cow  Jumped  over  the  Moon  and  the 
Dish  Ran  away  with  the  Spoon. 

Outside,  a  moon,  something  bridal  in  its  white- 
ness, beat  down  upon  a  kicked-up  stretch  of  beach, 
the  banana-skins,  the  pop-corn  boxes,  the  gam- 
bados of  erstwhile  revelers  violently  printed  into 
its  sands.  A  platinum-colored  sea  undulated  in. 

The  leaping,  bounding  outline  of  Luna  Park  winked 
out  even  as  they  emerged,  the  whole  violent  contor- 
tion fading  back  into  silver  mist.  There  was  a  new 
breeze,  spicily  cool. 

Miss  Hoag  breathed  out,  "Ain't  this  something 
grand?" 

"Giddy-ap!"  cried  the  Baron,  slappity-slappity 
at  the  great  boulder  of  the  Granite  Jaw's  head. 
"Giddy-ap!" 

They  plowed  forward,  a  group  out  of  Phantasma- 
goria— as  motley  a  threesome  as  ever  strode  this 
side  of  the  Land  of  Anesthesia. 

"How  do  you  like  it  at  Mrs.  Bostum's  boarding- 
house,  Mr.  Jastrow?  I  never  stop  anywheres  else 
on  the  Island.  Most  of  the  Shapiro  concession 
always  stops  there." 

"Good  as  the  next,"  said  Mr.  Jastrow,  kicking 
onward. 

277 


HUMORESQUE 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  you  was  ailing  so  last  night, 
Mr.  Jastrow,  and  I  was  sorry  there  was  nothing 
you  would  let  me  do  for  you.  They  always  call  me 
'the  Doc'  around  exhibits.  I  say — but  you  just 
ought  to  heard  yourself  yell  me  out  of  the  room 
when  I  come  in  to  offer  myself — " 

"They  had  me  crazy  with  pain." 

"You  wasn't  so  crazy  with  pain  when  the  albino 
girl  come  down  with  the  bottle  of  fire-water,  was  he, 
Baron?  We  seen  him  throwing  goo-goos  at  Albino, 
didn't  we,  Baron?" 

THE  BARON  (impish  in  the  moonlight) :  He  fell  for 
a  cotton-top. 

"He  didn't  yell  the  albino  and  her  bottle  out,  did 
he,  Baron?" 

"It's  this  darn  business,"  said  Mr.  Jastrow, 
creating  a  storm  of  sand-spray  with  each  stride. 
"I'm  punctured  up  like  a  tire." 

"I  been  saying  to  the  Baron,  Mr.  Jastrow,  if 
you'd  only  cut  out  the  glass-eating  feature.  You  got 
as  fine  a  appearance  and  as  fine  a  strong  act  by 
itself  as  you  could  want.  A  short  fellow  like  you 
with  all  your  muscle-power  is  a  novelty  in  himself. 
Honest,  Mr.  Jastrow,  it — it's  a  sin  to  see  a  fine-set-up 
fellow  like  you  killing  yourself  this  way.  You  ought 
to  cut  out  the  granite- jaw  feature." 

"Yeh — and  cut  down  my  act  to  half-pay.  I'd 
be  full  of  them  tricks — wouldn't  I  ?  Show  me  another 
jaw  act  measures  up  to  mine.  Show  me  the  strong- 
arm  number  that  ever  pulled  down  the  coin  a  jaw 
act  did.  I'd  be  a  sweet  boob,  wouldn't  I,  to  cut 
my  pocket-book  in  two?  I  need  money,  Airy-Fairy. 

278 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

My  God!  how  I  got  the  capacity  for  needing 
money!" 

"What's  money  to  health,  Mr.  Jastrow?  It  ain't 
human  or  freak  nature  to  digest  glass.  Honest, 
every  time  I  hear  you  crunching  I  get  the  chills!" 

Then  Mr.  Jastrow  shot  forward  his  lower  jaw 
with  a  milling  motion: 

"Gr-r-r-r-r!" 

"She's  sweet  on  you,  Jastrow,  like  all  the  rest 
of  'em. 

"Better  to  have  loved  a  short  man 
Than  never  to  have  loved  atall." 

"Baron,  I— I'll  spank!" 
"Worth  her  weight  in  gold!" 
"Where  you  got  all  that  money  soaked,  Big  Tent?" 
"Aw,    Mr.   Jastrow,    the   Baron's  only  torment- 
ing me." 

"She  sleeps  on  a  pillow  stuffed  with  greenbacks." 
"Sure  I  got  a  few  dollars  saved,  and  I  ain't 
ashamed  of  it.  I've  had  steady  work  in  this  business 
eight  years,  now,  ever  since  the  circus  came  to  my 
town  out  in  Ohio  and  made  me  the  offer,  but  that's 
no  sign  I  can  be  in  it  eight  years  longer.  Sure  I  got 
a  few  dollars  saved." 

"Well,  whatta  you  know — a  big  tent  like  you?" 
"Ain't  a  big  tent  like  me  human,  Mr.  Jastrow? 
Ain't  I — ain't  I  just  like  any  other — girl — twenty 
years   old — ain't   I   just   like — other — girls — under- 
neath all  this?" 

"Sure,  sure!"  said  Mr.  Jastrow.    "How  much  you 
to  the  good,  little  one?" 
19  279 


HUMORESQUE 

"I've  about  eleven  hundred  dollars  with  my  bank- 
books and  pig." 

"'Leven  hundred!  Well,  whatta  you  know  about 
that?  Say,  Big  Tent,  better  lemme  double  your 
money  for  you!" 

"Aw,  you  go  on,  Mr.  Jastrow!  Ain't  you  the 
torment,  too?" 

"Say,  gal,  next  time  I  get  the  misery  you  can 
hold  my  hand  as  long  as  your  little  heart  desires. 
'Leven  hundred  to  the  good!  Good  night!  Get 
down  off  my  shoulder,  you  little  flea,  you.  I  got 
to  turn  in  here  and  take  a  drink  on  the  strength 
of  that !  'Leven  hundred  to  the  good !  Good  night !" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jastrow,  in  your  state!  In  your  state 
alcohol's  poison.  Mr.  Jastrow  —  please  —  you 
mustn't!" 

"Blow  me,  too,  Jas!  Aw,  say — have  a  heart; 
blow  me  to  a  bracer,  too!" 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Jastrow,  don't  take  the  Baron.  The 
little  fellow  can't  stand  alcohol.  His  baroness  don't 
want  it.  Anyways,  it's  against  the  rules — please — 

"You  stay  and  take  the  lady  home,  flea.  See 
the  lady  home  like  a  gentleman.  'Leven  hundred 
to  the  good!  Say,  I'd  see  a  lady  as  far  as  the  devil 
on  that.  Good  night!" 

At  Mrs.  Bostum's  boarding-house,  one  of  a  row 
of  the  stare-faced  packing-cases  of  the  summer  city, 
bathing-suits  drying  and  kicking  over  veranda  rails, 
a  late  quiet  had  fallen,  only  one  window  showing 
yellowly  in  the  peak  of  its  top  story.  A  white-net 
screen  door  was  unhooked  from  without  by  inserting 

280 


EVEN    AS    YOU    AND    I 

a  hand  through  a  slit  in  the  fabric.  An  uncarpeted 
pocket  of  hall  lay  deep  in  absolute  blackness.  Miss 
Hoag  fumbled  for  the  switch,  finally  leaving  the 
Baron  to  the  meager  comfort  of  his  first-floor 
back. 

"Y'all  right,  honey?  Can  you  reach  what  you 
want?" 

The  Baron  clambered  to  a  chair  and  up  to  her. 
His  face  had  unknotted,  the  turmoil  of  little  lines 
scattering. 

"Aw!"  he  said.  "Good  old  tub,  Teenie!  Good  old 
Big  Tent!" 

A  layer  of  tears  sprang  across  Miss  Hoag's  glance 
and,  suddenly  gaining  rush,  ran  down  over  her  lashes. 
She  dashed  at  them. 

"I'm  human,  Baron.  Maybe  you  don't  know  it, 
but  I'm  human." 

"Now  what  did  I  do,  Teenie?" 

"It — it  ain't  you,  Baron;  it — it  ain't  anybody. 
It — it's — only  I  just  wonder  sometimes  what  God 
had  in  mind,  anyways — making  our  kind.  Where 
do  we  belong — " 

"Aw,  you're  a  great  Heavy,  Teenie — and  it's  the 
Bigs  and  the  Littles  got  the  cinch  in  this  business. 
Looka  the  poor  Siamese.  How'd  you  like  to  be 
hitched  up  thataway  all  day.  Looka  Ossi.  How'd 
you  like  to  let  'em  stick  pins  in  you  all  for  their 
ten  cents'  worth.  Looka  poor  old  Jas.  Why,  a  girl's 
a  fool  to  waste  any  heartache  gettin'  stuck  on  him. 
That  old  boy's  going  to  wake  up  out  of  one  of  them 
spells  dead  some  day.  How'd  you  like  to  chew  glass 
because  it's  big  money  and  then  drink  it  up  so  fast 

281 


HUMORESQUE 

you'd  got  to  borrow  money  off  the  albino  girl  for 
the  doctor's  prescription — " 

The  tears  came  now  rivuleting  down  Miss  Hoag's 
cheeks,  bouncing  off  to  the  cape. 

"O  God!"  she  said,  her  hand  closing  over  the 
Baron's,  pressing  it.  "With  us  freaks,  even  if  we 
win,  we  lose.  Take  me.  What's  the  good  of  ten 
million  dollars  to  me — twenty  millions?  Last  night 
when  I  went  in  to  offer  him  help — him  in  the  same 
business  and  that  ought  to  be  used  to  me — right 
in  the  middle  of  being  crazy  with  pain,  what  did  he 
yell  every  time  he  looked  at  me,  'Take  her  away! 
Take  her  away!'" 

"Aw  now,  Teenie,  Jas  had  the  D.  T.'s  last  night; 

1 »» 

"'Take  her  away!'  he  kept  yelling.  'Take  her 
away !'  One  of  my  own  kind  getting  the  horrors 
just  to  look  at  me!" 

"You're  sweet  on  the  Granite  Jaw;  you  are, 
Teenie;  that's  what's  eating  you — you're  sweet  on 
the  Granite  Jaw — " 

Suddenly  Miss  Hoag  turned,  slamming  the  door 
afterward  so  that  the  silence  re-echoed  sharply. 

"What  if  I  am?"  she  said,  standing  out  in  the 
hall  pocket  of  absolute  blackness,  her  hand  cupped 
against  her  mouth  and  the  blinding  tears  staggering. 
"What  if  I  am?  What  if  I  am?" 

Within  her  own  room,  a  second-floor-back,  aug- 
mented slightly  by  an  immaculate  layout  of  pink- 
celluloid  toilet  articles  and  a  white  water-pitcher  of 
three  pink  carnations,  Miss  Hoag  snapped  on  her  light 
where  it  dangled  above  the  celluloid  toilet  articles. 

282 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

A  summer-bug  was  bumbling  against  the  ceiling;  it 
dashed  itself  between  Miss  Hoag  and  her  mirror,  as 
she  stood  there  breathing  from  the  climb  and  looking 
back  at  herself  with  salt-bitten  eyes,  mouth  twitch- 
ing. Finally,  after  an  inanimate  period  of  unseeing 
stare,  she  unhooked  the  long  cape,  brushing  it,  and, 
ever  dainty  of  self,  folding  it  across  a  chair-back.  A 
voluminous  garment,  fold  and  fold  upon  itself,  but 
sheer  and  crisp  dimity,  even  streaming  a  length  of 
pink  ribbon,  lay  across  the  bed-edge.  Miss  Hoag 
took  it  up,  her  hand  already  slowly  and  tiredly  at 
the  business  of  unfettering  herself  of  the  monstrous 
red  silk. 

Came  a  sudden  avalanche  of  knocking  and  a 
rattling  of  door-knob,  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Bostrum. 
landlady,  high  with  panic. 

"Teenie!  Jastrow's  dyin'  in  his  room!  He's  yell- 
in'  for  you!  For  God's  sakes — quick — down  in  his 
room!" 

In  the  instant  that  followed,  across  the  sudden 
black  that  blocked  Miss  Hoag  of  vision,  there  swam 
a  million  stars. 

"Teenie!  For  God's  sakes — quick!  He's  yellin' 
for  you — " 

"Coming,  Mrs.  Bostrum — coming — coming — com- 
ing!" 

In  a  dawn  that  came  up  as  pink  as  the  palm  of  a 
babe,  but  flowed  rather  futilely  against  the  tired, 
speckled  eye  of  incandescent  bulb  dangling  above 
the  Granite  Jaw's  rumpled,  tumbled  bed  of  pain, 
a  gray-looking  group  stood  in  whispered  conference 

283 


HUMORESQUE 

beside  a  slit  of  window  that  overlooked  a  narrow 
clapboard  slit  of  street. 

THE  DOCTOR:  Even  with  recovery,  he  will  be 
on  his  back  at  least  six  months. 

Miss  HOAG:  Oh,  my  God!  Doctor! 

THE  DOCTOR:  Has  the  man  means? 

THE  BARON  :  Not  a  penny.  He  only  came  to  the 
concession  two  months  ago  from  a  row  with  the 
Flying-Fish  Troupe.  He's  in  debt  already  to  half 
the  exhibit. 

THE  LANDLADY  :  He's  two  weeks  in  arrears.  Not 
that  I'm  pestering  the  poor  devil  now,  but  Gawd 
knows  I — need — 

THE  DOCTOR  :  Any  relatives  or  friends  to  consult 
about  the  operation? 

Miss  HOAG  (turning  and  stooping):  'Ain't  you 
got  no  relations  or  friends,  Jastrow?  What  was  it 
you  hollered  about  the  aerial-wonder  act?  Are  they 
friends  of  yours?  'Ain't  you  got  no  relatives,  no 
— no  friends,  maybe,  that  you  could  stay  with 
awhile?  Sid?  Who's  he?  'Ain't  you,  Jastrow,  got 
no  relations? 

The  figure  under  the  sheet,  pain-huddled,  limb- 
twisted,  turned  toward  the  wall,  palm  slapping  out 
against  it. 

"Hell!"  said  Jastrow,  the  Granite  Jaw. 

THE  DOCTOR  (drawing  down  his  shirt-sleeves): 
I'll  have  an  ambulance  around  in  twenty  min- 
utes. 

Miss  HOAG:  Where  for,  Doctor? 

THE  DOCTOR:  Brooklyn  Public  Institute,  for  the 
present. 

284 


EVEN   AS    YOU    AND    I 

THE  LANDLADY  (apron  up  over  her  head}:  Poor 
fellow!  Poor  handsome  fellow! 

Miss  HOAG:    No,  Doctor.    No!    No!    No! 

THE  DOCTOR  (rather  tiredly):  Sorry,  madam, 
but  there  is  no  alternative. 

Miss  HOAG:  No,  no!  I'll  pay,  Doctor.  How 
much?  How  much? 

THE  BARON:  Yeh.  I'll  throw  in  a  tenner  my- 
self. Don't  throw  the  poor  devil  to  charity.  We'll 
collect  from  the  troupe.  We  raised  forty  dollars 
for  a  nigger  wild  man,  once  when — 

THE  DOCTOR:  Come  now;  all  this  is  not  a  drop 
in  the  bucket.  This  man  needs  an  operation  and 
then  constant  attention.  If  he  pulls  through,  it  is 
a  question  of  months.  What  he  actually  needs  then 
is  country  air,  fresh  milk,  eggs,  professional  nursing, 
and  plenty  of  it! 

Miss  HOAG:  That's  me,  Doc!  That's  me!  I'm 
going  to  fix  just  that  for  him.  I  got  the  means.  I 
can  show  you  three  bank-books.  I  got  the  means 
and  a  place  out  in  Ohio  I  can  rent  'til  I  buy  it  some 
day.  A  farm!  Fresh  milk!  Leghorns!  I'll  take 
him  out  there,  Doc.  Eighty  miles  from  where  I  was 
born.  I  was  thinking  of  laying  up  awhile,  anyways. 
I  got  the  means.  I'll  pull  him  through,  Doctor. 
I'll  pull  him  through! 

THE    BARON:    Good   God!  Teenie — you  crazy — 

FROM  THE  BED:  Worth  her  weight  in  gold. 
Worth  her  weight  in  gold. 

In  the  cup  of  a  spring  dusk  that  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  an  ineffable  sweetness  and  the  rich, 

285 


HUMORESQUE 

loamy  odors  of  turned  earth ;  with  rising  sap  and  low 
mists;  with  blackening  tree- tops  and  the  chittering 
of  birds — the  first  lamplight  of  all  the  broad  and  fertile 
landscape  moved  across  the  window  of  a  story-and- 
a-half  white  house  which  might  have  been  either 
itself  or  its  own  outlying  barn.  A  roof,  sheer  of 
slant,  dipped  down  over  the  window,  giving  the 
fagade  the  expression  of  a  coolie  under  peaked  hat. 

"Great  Scott!  Move  that  lamp  off  the  sill!  You 
want  to  gimme  the  blind  staggers?" 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  in  your  eyes,  honey.  There 
—that  better?" 

Silence. 

A  parlor  hastily  improvised  into  a  bedroom  came 
out  softly  in  the  glow.  A  room  of  matting  and 
marble-topped,  bottle-littered  walnut  table,  of  white 
iron  hospital-cot  and  curly  horsehair  divan,  a  dapple- 
marble  mantelpiece  of  conch-shell,  medicated  gauze, 
bisque  figurines,  and  hot-water  kettle;  in  the  sheerest 
of  dimity,  still  dainty  of  ribbon,  the  figure  of  Miss 
Hoag,  hugely,  omnipotently  omnipresent. 

"That  better,  Jas?"  Silence.  "Better?  That's 
good!  Now  for  the  boy's  supper.  Beautiful  white 
egg  laid  by  beautiful  white  hen  and  all  beat  up 
fluffy  with  sugar  to  make  boy  well,  eh?" 

Emaciated  to  boniness,  the  great  frame  jutting 
and  straining  rather  terribly  to  break  through  the 
restraint  of  too  tight  flesh,  Mr.  Jastrow  rose  to  his 
elbow,  jaw-lines  sullen. 

"Cut  out  that  baby  talk  and  get  me  a  swig, 
Teenie.  Get  me  a  drink  before  I  get  ugly." 

"Oh,  Jastrow  honey,  don't  begin  that.      Please, 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

Jastrow,  don't  begin  that.  You  been  so  good  all 
day,  honey — " 

"Get  me  a  swig,"  he  repeated  through  set  teeth. 
"You  and  a  boob  country  quack  of  a  doctor  ain't 
going  to  own  my  soul.  I'll  bust  up  the  place  again. 
I  ain't  all  dead  yet.  Get  me  a  swig — quick,  too." 

"Jas,  there  ain't  none." 

"There  is!" 

"That's  just  for  to  whip  up  five  drops  at  a  time 
with  your  medicine.  That's  medicine,  Jas;  it  ain't 
to  be  took  like  drink.  You  know  what  the  doc 
said  last  time.  He  ain't  responsible  if  you  disobey. 
I  ain't — neither.  Please,  Jas!" 

"I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  the  deal  I'm  getting 
around  here.  No  quack  boob  is  going  to  own  my 
soul." 

"Ain't  it  enough  the  way  you  nearly  died  last 
time,  Jas?  Honest,  didn't  that  teach  you  a  lesson? 
Be  good,  Jas.  Don't  scare  poor  old  Teenie  all  alone 
here  with  you.  Looka  out  there  through  the  door. 
Ain't  it  something  grand?  Honest,  Jas,  I  just  never 
get  tired  looking.  See  them  low  little  hills  out  there. 
I  always  say  they  look  like  chiffon  this  time  of 
evening.  Don't  they?  Just  looka  the  whole  fields 
out  there,  so  still — like — like  a  old  horse  standing 
up  dozing.  Smell !  Listen  to  the  little  birds !  Ain't 
we  happy  out  here,  me  and  my  boy  that's  getting 
well  so  fine?" 

Then  Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw  began  to  whimper, 
half-moans  engendered  by  weakness.  "Put  me  out 
of  my  misery.  Shoot!" 

"Jas — Jas — ain't  that  just  an  awful  way  for  you 
287 


HUMORESQUE 

to  talk?  Ain't  that  just  terrible  to  say  to  your  poor 
old  Big  Tent?" 

She  smoothed  out  his  pillow,  and  drew  out  his 
cot  on  ready  casters,  closer  toward  the  open  door. 

"See,  Jas — honest,  can  you  ever  get  enough  of 
how  beautiful  it  is?  When  I  was  a  kid  on  my  pap's 
farm  out  there,  eighty  miles  beyond  the  ridge,  in- 
stead of  playing  with  the  kids  that  used  to  torment 
me  because  I  was  a  heavy,  I  just  used  to  lay  out 
evenings  like  this  on  a  hay-rack  or  something  and 
look  and  look  and  look.  There's  something  about 
this  soft  kind  of  scenery  that  a  person  that's  born 
in  it  never  gets  tired  of.  Why,  I've  exhibited  out 
in  California  right  under  the  nose  of  the  highest 
kind  of  mountains;  but  gimme  the  little  scenery 
every  time." 

"I'm  a  lump — that's  what  I  am.  Nine  months  of 
laying.  I'm  a  lump — on  a  woman,  too." 

"Why,  Jas,  Teenie's  proud  to-  have  you  on — on 
her.  'Ain't  we  got  plans  for  each  other  after — 
you  get  well?  Why,  half  the  time  I'm  just  in  heaven 
over  that.  That's  why,  honey,  if  only  you  won't 
let  yourself  get  setbacks!  That's  all  the  doctor 
says  is  between  you  and  getting  well.  That's  all 
that  keeps  you  down,  Jas,  you  scaring  me  and  mak- 
ing me  go  against  the  doctor's  orders.  Last  week 
your  eating  that  steak — that  drink  you  stole — ain't 
you  ashamed  to  have  got  out  of  bed  that  way  and 
broke  the  lock?  You — you  mustn't  ever  again,  Jas, 
make  me  go  against  the  doctor." 

"I  gets  crazy.    Crazy  with  laying." 

"Just  think,  Jas;  here  I've  drew  out  my  last  six 
288 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

hundred,  ready  to  make  first  payment  down  on  the 
place  and  us  all  ready  to  begin  to  farm  it.  Ain't  that 
worth  holding  yourself  in  for?  It  wouldn't  be  right, 
Jas ;  it  would  be  something  terrible  if  we  had  to  break 
into  that  six  hundred  for  medicine  and  doctors.  I 
don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  honey,  all  those 
months  so  quiet  and  behaved  on  your  back,  and,  now 
that  you're  getting  well,  the — the  old  liquor- thirst 
setting  in.  We  never  will  get  our  start  that  way,  Jas. 
We  got  plans,  if  you  don't  hinder  your  poor  Teenie. 
The  doctor  told  me,  honey — honest,  he  did — one  of 
them  spells — from  liquor  could — could  take  you  off 
just  like  that.  Even  getting  well  the  way  you  are!" 

"I'm  a  lump;  that's  what  I  am." 

"You  ain't,  Jas;  you're  just  everything  in  the 
world." 

"Sponging  off  a  woman!" 

"Sponging'!    With  our  own  little  farm  and  us 
farming  it  to  pay  it  off!    I  like  that!" 

"Gimme  a  swig,  Teenie.  For  God's  sake  gimme 
a  swig!" 

"Jas — Jas,  if  you  get  to  cutting  up  again,  I'm  go- 
oing  to  get  me  a  man-nurse  out  here — honest  I  am!" 

"A  swig,  Teenie." 

"Please,  Jas — it's  only  for  bad  spells — five  drops 
mixed  up  in  your  medicine.  That's  six  dollars  a 
bottle,  Jas,  and  only  for  bad  spells." 

"Stingy  gut!" 

' '  Looka  down  there,  honey  —  there's  old  man 
Wyncoop's  cow  broke  tether  again.  What  you 
bet  he's  out  looking  for  her.  See  her  winding  up 
the  road." 

289 


HUMORESQUE 

"Stingy  gut!" 

"You  know  I  ain't  stingy.  If  the  doctor  didn't 
forbid,  I'd  buy  you  ten  bottles,  I  would,  if  it  cost 
twenty  a  bottle.  I'm  trying  to  do  what  the  doctor 
says  i£  best,  Jas." 

"'Best'!  I  know  what's  best.  A  few  dollars  in 
my  pocke't  for  me  to  boss  over  and  buy  me  the 
things  I  need  is  what's  best.  I'm  a  man  born  to 
having  money  in  his  pocket.  I'm  none  of  your 
mollycoddles." 

"Sure  you  ain't!  Haven't  you  got  over  ninety 
dollars  under  your  pillow  this  minute?  'Ain't  the 
boy  got  all  the  spending-money  he  wants  and  no- 
wheres  to  spend  it?  Ain't  that  a  good  one,  Jas? 
All  the  spending-money  he  wants  and  nowheres  to 
spend  it.  Next  thing  the  boy  knows,  he's  going  to 
be  working  the  farm  and  sticky  with  money.  Ain't 
it  wonderful,  Jas,  never  no  showing  for  us  again? 
O  God!  ain't  that  just  wonderful?" 

He  reached  up  then  to  stroke  her  hand,  a  short 
pincushion  of  a  hand,  white  enough,  but  amazingly 
inundated  with  dimples. 

"Nice  old  Big  Tent!" 

"That's  the  way,  honey!  Honest,  when  you  get 
one  of  your  nice  spells,  your  poor  old  Teeriie  would 
do  just  anything  for  you." 

"I  get  crazy  with  pain.     It  makes  me  ugly." 

"I  know,  Jas — I  know — anyway,  you  fix  it,  honey. 
"  I  'ain't  got  a  kick  coming — a — tub  like  me  to  have 
—you." 

She  loomed  behind  his  cot,  carefully  out  of  his 
range  of  vision,  her  own  gaze  out  across  the  drowsing 

290 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND    I 

countryside.  A  veil  of  haze  was  beginning  to  thicken, 
whole  schools  of  crickets  whirring  into  it. 

"If — if  not  for  one  thing,  Jas,  you  know — you 
know  what?  I  think  if  a  person  was  any  happier 
than  me,  she — she'd  die." 

"Let's  play  I'm  Rockefeller  laying  on  his  country 
estate,  Teenie.  Come  on;  let's  kid  ourselves  along. 
Gimme  the  six  hundred,  Teenie — 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me,  Jas,  except  for  what  I'd 
be  the  happiest  girl?  Well,  it's  this.  If  only  I  could 
wear  a  cloak  so  when  I  got  in  it  you  couldn't  see 
me!  If  only  I  never  had  to  walk  in  front  of  you  so 
— so  you  got  to  look  at  me!" 

"You  been  a  good  gal  to  me,  Big  Tent.  I  never 
even  look  twice  at  you — that's  how  used  a  fellow 
can  get  to  anything.  I'm  going  to  square  it  up  with 
you,  too." 

"You  mean  it's  me  will  square  it  with  you,  Jas 
— you  see  if  I  don't.  Why,  there'll  be  nothing  too 
much  for  me  to  do  to  make  up  for  the  happiness 
we're  going  to  have,  Jas.  I'm  going  to  make  this 
the  kinda  little  home  you  read  about  in  the  maga- 
zines. Tear  out  all  this  old  rented  junk  furniture, 
paint  it  up  white  after  we  got  the  six  hundred  paid 
down  and  the  money  beginning  to  come  in.  I'm 
even  going  to  fix  up  the  little  trap-door  room  in  the 
attic,  so  that  if  the  Baron  or  any  of  the  old  exhibit 
crowd  happens  to  be  showing  in  Xenia  or  around, 
they  can  visit  us.  Just  think,  Jas — a  spare  room 
for  the  old  crowd.  Honest,  it's  funny,  but  there's 
not  one  thing  scares  me  about  all  these  months  on 
the  place  alone  here,  Jas,  now  that  we  bought  the 

291 


HUMORESQUE 

gun,  except  the  nightmares  sometimes  that  we — 
we're  back  exhibiting.  That's  why  I  want  to  keep 
open  house  for  them  that  ain't  as  lucky  as  us. 
Honest,  Jas — I — I  just  can't  think  it's  real,  not, 
anyways,  till  we've  paid  down  six  hundred  and — 
the  fellow  you  keep  joking  about  that  wears  his 
collar  wrong  side  'fore  comes  out  from  Xenia  to  read 
the  ceremony.  Oh,  Jas,  I — I'll  make  it  square  with 
you.  You'll  never  have  a  sorry  day  for  it!" 

"You're  all  right,  Big  Tent,"  said  the  Granite 
Jaw,  lying  back  suddenly,  lips  twitching. 

"Ain't  you  feeling  well,  honey?  Let  me  fix  you 
an  egg?" 

"A  little  swig,  Teenie — a  little  one,  is  all  I  ask." 

"No,  no — please,  Jastrow;  don't  begin — just  as  I 
had  you  forgetting." 

"It  does  me  good,  I  tell  you.  I  know  my  constitu- 
tion better  than  a  quack  country  boob  does.  I'm  a 
freak,  I  am — a  prize  concession  that  has  to  be  treated 
special.  Since  that  last  swig,  I  tell  you,  I  been  a 
different  man.  I  need  the  strength.  I  got  to  have 
a  little  in  my  system.  I'm  a  freak,  I  tell  you. 
Everybody  knows  there's  nothing  like  a  swig  for 
strength." 

"Not  for  you!  It's  poison,  Jas,  so  much  poison! 
Don't  you  remember  what  they  said  to  you  after 
the  operation?  All  your  life  you  got  to  watch  out 
— just  the  little  prescribed  for  you  is  all  your  system 
has  got  to  have.  Wouldn't  I  give  it  to  you  otherwise 
—wouldn't  I?" 

"Swig,  Teenie!    Honest  to  God,  just  a  swig!'* 

"No,  no,  Jas!    No,  no,  no!" 
293 


EVEN  AS   YOU   AND   I 

Suddenly  Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw  drew  down  his 
lips  to  a  snarl,  his  hands  clutching  into  the  coverlet 
and  drawing  it  up  off  his  feet. 

"Gimme!"  he  said.  "I've  done  it  before  and  I'll 
do  it  now — smash  up  the  place!  Gimme!  You're 
getting  me  crazy!  This  time  you  got  me  crazy. 
Gimme — you  hear — gimme!" 

"Jas — for  God's  sakes — no — no!" 

"Gimme!  By  God!  you  hear — gimme!"  There 
was  a  wrenching  movement  of  his  body,  a  fumbling 
beneath  the  pillow,  and  Mr.  Jastrow  suddenly  held 
forth,  in  crouched  attitude  of  cunning,  something 
cold,  something  glittering,  something  steel. 

"Now,"  he  said,  head  jutting  forward,  and  through 
shut  teeth — "now  gimme,  or  by  God — " 

"Jas — Jas — for  God's  sake  have  you  gone  crazy? 
Where'd  you  get  that  gun?  Is  that  where  I  heard 
you  sneaking  this  morning — over  to  my  trunk  for 
my  watch-dog?  Gimme  that  gun — Jas!  You — you're 
crazy — Jas!" 

"You  gimme,  was  what  I  said,  and  gimme  quick! 
You  see  this  thing  pointing?  Well,  gimme  quick." 

"Jas-" 

"Don't  'Jas'  me.  I'm  ugly  this  time,  and  when 
I'm  ugly  I'm  ugly!" 

"All  right!  All  right!  Only,  for  God's  sakes, 
Jas,  don't  get  out  of  bed,  don't  get  crazy  enough  to 
shoot  that  thing.  I'll  get  it.  Wait,  Jastrow;  it's  all 
right,  you're  all  right.  I'll  get  it.  See,  Teenie's 
going.  Wait — wait — Teenie's  going — " 

She  edged  out  and  she  edged  in,  hysteria  audible 
in  her  breathing. 

293 


HUMORESQUE 

"Jas  honey,  won't  you  please — " 

"Gimme,  was  what  I  said — gimme  and  quick!" 

Her  arm  under  his  head,  the  glass  tilted  high 
against  his  teeth,  he  drank  deeply,  gratefully, 
breathing  out  finally  and  lying  back  against  his 
pillow,  his  right  hand  uncurling  of  its  clutch. 

She  lifted  the  short-snouted,  wide-barreled,  and 
steely  object  off  the  bed-edge  gingerly,  tremblingly. 

"More  like  it,"  he  said,  running  his  tongue  around 
his  mouth;  "more  like  it." 

"Jas — Jas,  what  have  you  done?" 

"Great  stuff!    Great  stuff!"    He  kept  repeating. 

"If — if  you  wasn't  so  sick,  honey — I  don't  know 
what  I'd  do  after  such  a  terrible  thing  like  this — 
you  acting  like  this — so  terrible — God!  I — I'm  all 
trembling." 

"Great  stuff!"  he  said,  and  reaching  out  and  eyes 
still  closed,  patting  her.  "Great  stuff,  nice  old  Big 
Tent!" 

"Try  to  sleep  now,  Jas.  You  musta  had  a  spell 
of  craziness!  This  is  awful!  Try  to  sleep.  If  only 
you  don't  get  a  spell —  Sleep — please!" 

"You  wait!  Guy  with  the  collar  on  wrong  side 
round — he's  the  one;  he's  the  one!" 

"Yes — yes,  honey.     Try  to  sleep!" 

"I  wanna  dream  I'm  Rockefeller.  If  there's  one 
thing  I  want  to  dream,  it's  Rockefeller." 

"Not  now — not  now — " 

"Lemme  go  to  sleep  like  a  king." 

"Yes,  honey." 

"Like  a  king,"  I  said. 

She  slid  her  hand  finally  into  one  of  the  voluminous 
294 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

folds  of  her  dress,  withdrawing  and  placing  a  rubber- 
bound  roll  into  his  hands. 

"There,  honey.    Go  to  sleep  now — like  a  king." 

He  fingered  it,  finally  sitting  up  to  count,  leaning 
forward  to  the  ring  of  lamplight. 

"Six  hundred  bucks!  Six  hundred!  Wow — oh, 
wow!  If  Sid  could  only  see  me  now!" 

' '  He  can,  honey — he  can.    Go  to  sleep.   'Sh-h-h-h !" 

"Slide  'em  under — slide  'em  under — Rockefeller." 

She  lifted  his  head,  placing  the  small  wad  beneath. 
He  turned  over,  cupping  his  hand  in  his  cheek, 
breathing  outward  deeply,  very  deeply. 

"Jas!" 

"Huh?" 

"Ain't  you  all  right?  You're  breathing  so  hard. 
Quit  breathing  so  hard.  It  scares  me.  Quit  making 
those  funny  noises.  Honey — for  God's  sake — quit!" 

Jastrow  the  Granite  Jaw  did  quit,  so  suddenly, 
so  completely,  his  face  turned  outward  toward  the 
purpling  meadows,  and  his  mouth  slightly  open, 
that  a  mirror  held  finally  and  frantically  against  it 
did  not  so  much  as  cloud. 

At  nine  o'clock  there  drew  up  outside  the  coolie- 
faced  house  one  of  those  small  tin  motor-cars  which 
are  tiny  mile-scavengers  to  the  country  road.  With  a 
thridding  of  engine  and  a  play  of  lamps  which  turned 
green  landscape,  gray,  it  drew  up  short,  a  rattling  at 
the  screen  door  following  almost  immediately. 

"Doctor,  that  you?  O  my  God!  Doctor,  it's 
too  late!  It's  all  over,  Doctor — Doctor — it's  all 
over!"  Trembling  in  a  frenzy  of  haste,  Miss  Hoag 
20  295 


HUMORESQUE 

drew  back  the  door,  the  room  behind  her  flickering 
with  shadows  from  an  uneven  wick. 

"You're  the  Fat,  ain't  you?  The  one  that's 
keeping  him?" 

"What— what— " 

"So  you're  the  meal-ticket!  Say,  leave  it  to  Will. 
Leave  it  to  that  boy  not  to  get  lost  in  this  world. 
Ain't  it  like  him  to  the  T  to  pick  a  good-natured 
Fat?" 

There  entered  into  Miss  Hoag's  front  room  Miss 
Sidonia  Sabrina,  of  the  Flying-Fish  Troupe,  World's 
Aeronaut  Trapeze  Wonder,  gloved  and  ringleted, 
beaded  of  eyelash  and  pink  of  ear-lobe,  the  teeth 
somewhat  crookedly,  but  pearlily  white  because  the 
lips  were  so  red,  the  parasol  long  and  impudently 
parrot-handled,  gilt  mesh  bag  clanking  against  a 
cluster  of  sister  baubles. 

"If  it  ain't  Will  to  the  T!  Pickin'  hisself  a  Fat 
to  sponge  on.  Can  you  beat  it?  M-m!  Was  you 
the  Fat  in  the  Coney  concession?" 

"Who—    Whatta  you— want?" 

"We  was  playin'  the  Zadalia  County  Fair.  I 
heard  he  was  on  his  back.  The  Little  in  our  show, 
Baroness  de  Ross,  has  a  husband  played  Coney 
with  youse.  Where  is  he?  Tell  him  his  little  Sid 
is  here.  Was  his  little  Sid  fool  enough  to  beat  it 
all  the  way  over  here  in  a  flivver  for  eight  bucks 
the  round  trip?  She  was!  Where  is  he?" 
"He—  Who—  You—" 

"You're  one  of  them  good-natured  simps,  ain't 
you?  So  was  I,  dearie.  It  don't  pay!  I  always 
said  of  Will  he  could  bleed  a  sour  pickle.  Where  is 

296 


EVEN   AS   YOU   AND   I 

he?  Tell  him  his  little  Sid  is  here  with  thirty  min- 
utes before  she  meets  up  with  the  show  on  the  ten- 
forty,  when  it  shoots  through  Xenia.  Tell  him  she 
was  fool  enough  to  come  because  he's  flat  on  his 
back." 

"I —  That's  him — Jastrow — there —  O  my  God 
— that's  him  laying  there,  miss!  Who  are  you? 
Sid —  I  thought —  I  never  knew —  Who  are  you  ? 
I  thought  it  was  Doc.  He  went  off  in  a  flash.  I 
was  standing  right  here —  I —  O  God!" 

There  seemed  to  come  suddenly  over  the  sibilant 
Miss  Sidonia  Sabrina  a  quieting  down,  a  lessening 
of  twinkle  and  shimmer  and  swish.  She  moved 
slowly  toward  the  huddle  on  the  cot,  parasol  lead- 
ing, and  her  hands  crossed  atop  the  parrot. 

"My  God!"  she  said.  "Will  dead!  Will  dead! 
I  musta  had  a  hunch.  God !  I  musta !  All  of  a  sud- 
den I  makes  up  my  mind.  I  jumps  ahead  of  the 
show.  God !  I  musta  had  one  of  my  hunches.  That 
lookin'-glass  I  broke  in  Dayton.  I — I  musta!" 

"It  come  so  sudden,  miss.  It's  a  wonder  I  didn't 
die,  too,  right  on  the  spot.  I  was  standing  here 
and—" 

Suddenly,  Miss  Sabrina  fumbled  in  the  gilt  mesh 
bag  for  her  kerchief,  her  face  lifting  to  cry. 

"He  spun  me  dirt,  Will  did.  If  ever  a  girl  was 
spun  dirt,  that  girl  was  me,  but  just  the  same  it 
— it's  my  husband  laying  there — it's  my  husband, 
no  matter  what  dirt  he  spun  me.  O  God — O — O — " 

At  half  after  ten  to  a  powdering  of  eye-sockets,  a 
touching  up  with  lip-stick,  a  readjustment  of  three- 
tiered  hat,  Miss  Sidonia  Sabrina  took  leave.  There 

297 


HUMORESQUE 

were  still  streaks  showing  through  her  retouched 
cheeks. 

"I  left  you  the  collar-and-cuff  box  with  his  initials 

on,  dearie,  for  a  remembrance.    I  give  it  to  him  the 

first  Christmas  after  we  was  married,  before  he  got 

to  developing  rough.    I  been  through  his  things  now 

entire.     I  got  'em  all  with  me.     If  there's  such  a 

thing  as  a  recordin'  angel,  you'll  go  down  on  the 

book.    Will  was  a  bad  lot,  but  he's  done  with  it  now, 

dearie.    I  never  seen  the  roughness  crop  up  in  a  man 

so  sudden  the  way  it  did  in  Will.    You  can  imagine, 

dearie,  when  the  men  in  the  troupe  horsewhipped 

him  one  night  for  the  way  he  lit  in  on  me  one  night 

in  drink.     That  was  the  night  he  quit.     O  Gawd! 

maybe  I  don't  look  it,  dearie,  but  I  been  through 

the  mill  in  my  day.     But  that's  all  over  now,  him 

layin'  there — my  husband.    Will  was  a  good  Strong 

in  his  day — nobody  can't  ever  take  that  away  from 

him.     I'm  leavin'  you  the  funeral  money  out  of 

what  he  had  under  his  pillow.    It's  a  godsend  to  me 

my  husband  layin'  up  that  few  hundred  when  things 

ain't  so  good  with  me.     You  was  a  good  influence, 

dearie.    I  never  knew  him  to  save  a  cent.    I'd  never 

have  thought  it.     Not  a  cent  from  him  all  these 

months.     My  legs  for  the  air- work  ain't  what  they 

used   to   be.      Inflammatory  rheumatism,   y'know. 

I've  got  a  mind  to  buy  me  a  farm,  too,  dearie. 

Settle  down.    Say,  I  got  to  hand  it  to  you,  dearie — 

you're  one  fine  Fat.    Baby  Ella  herself  had  nothin' 

on  you,  and  I've  worked  with  as  fine  Fats  as  there 

is  in  the  business.    You're  sure  one  fine  Fat,  and  if 

there's  such  a  thing  as  a  recordin'  angel — I  got  to 

298 


EVEN    AS    YOU   AND    I 

catch  that  train,  dearie — the  chauff's  honkin' — no 
grandmother  stories  goes  with  my  concession.  God, 
to  think  of  Will  layin'  on  a  cool  six  hundred!  Here's 
twenty-five  for  the  funeral.  If  it's  more,  lemme 
know.  Sidonia  Sabrina,  care  Flying-Fish  Troupe, 
State  Fair,  Butler  County,  Ohio.  Good-by,  dearie, 
and  God  bless  you!" 

Long  after  the  thridding  of  engine  had  died  down, 
and  the  purple  quiet  flowed  over  the  path  of  twin 
lamplights,  Miss  Hoag  stood  in  her  half-open  screen 
door,  gazing  after.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes; 
indeed,  on  the  contrary,  the  echo  of  the  chugg- 
chugging  which  still  lay  on  the  air  had  taken  on  this 
rhythm: 

Better  to  have  loved  a  short  man 
Than  never  to  have  loved  atall. 

Better  to  have  loved  a  short  man 
Than  never  to  have  loved  atall. 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

FOR  six  midnights  of  the  week,  on  the  roof  of  the 
Moncrieff  Frolic,  grape- wreathed  and  with  the 
ecstatic  quivering  of  the  flesh  that  is  Asia's,  Folly, 
robed  in  veils,  lifts  her  carmined  lips  to  be  kissed, 
and  Bacchus,  whose  pot-belly  has  made  him  unloved 
of  fair  women,  raises  his  perpetual  goblet  and  drinks 
that  he  may  not  weep. 

On  the  stroke  of  twelve,  when  on  stretches  of 
prairie  the  invisible  joinder  of  night  and  day  is  a 
majestic  thing,  the  Moncrieff  Follies — twenty-four 
of  them,  not  counting  two  specialty  acts  and  a  pair 
of  whistling  Pierrots — burst  forth  into  frolic  with  a 
terrific  candle  and  rhinestone  power. 

Saint  Genevieve,  who  loved  so  to  brood  over  the 
enigmatic  roofs  of  the  city,  wrould  have  here  found 
pause.  Within  the  golden  inclosure  of  the  Moncrieff 
Ropf,  a  ceiling  canopied  in  deep  waves  of  burnt- 
orange  velvet  cunningly  concealed,  yet  disclosed, 
amber  light,  the  color  of  wine  in  the  pouring.  Be- 
hind burnt-orange  portieres  of  great  length  and  great 
depth  of  nap,  the  Twenty-Four  Follies,  each  tem- 
pered like  a  knife  edge,  stood  identically  poised  for 
the  first  clash  of  Negroid  music  from  a  Negroid 
orchestra. 

300 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

At  a  box-office  built  to  imitate  a  sedan  chair — 
Louis  Quinze  without  and  Louis  Slupsky  within— 
Million- Dollar  Jimmie  Cox,  of  a  hundred  hundred 
Broadway  all-nights;  the  Success  Shirt  Waist  Com- 
pany, incorporated,  entertaining  the  Keokuk  Em- 
porium; the  newest  husband  of  the  oldest  prima 
donna;  and  Mr.  Herman  Loeb,  of  Kahn,  Loeb  & 
Schulien,  St.  Louis,  waited  in  line  for  the  privilege 
of  ordering  d  la  carte  from  the  most  a  la  mode  menu 
in  Oh-la-la,  New  York. 

The  line  grew,  eighty  emptying  theaters  fifteen 
stories  below,  sending  each  its  trickle  toward  the 
Midnight  Frolic — men  too  tired  to  sleep,  women  with 
slim,  syncopated  hips,  and  eyes  none  too  nice.  The 
smell  of  fur  and  fragrant  powder  on  warm  flesh  be- 
gan to  rise  on  a  fog  of  best  Havana  smoke.  At  the 
elevators  women  dropped  out  of  their  cloaks  and,  in 
the  bustle  of  checking,  stood  by,  not  unconscious  of 
the  damask  finish  to  bare  shoulders. 

When  Mr.  Herman  Loeb  detached  himself  from 
the  human  tape-line  before  the  box-office,  the  firm  and 
not  easily  discomposed  lines  of  his  face  had  fallen 
into  loose  curves,  the  lower  lip  thrust  forward  and 
the  eyebrows  upward.  Sheep  and  men  in  their 
least  admirable  moments  have  that  same  trick  of 
face.  He  rejoined  his  companion,  two  slips  of  card- 
board well  up  in  the  cup  of  his  palm. 

"Good  seats,  Herman?" 

"I  ask  you,  Sam,  is  it  an  outrage?  Twenty  bucks 
for  a  table  on  the  side!" 

"No!" 

"Is  that  highway  robbery  or  not,  I  ask  you!" 
301 


HUMORESQUE 

Mr.  Samuel  Kahn  hitched  at  his  belt,  an  indica- 
tion of  mental  ferment. 

"I  wouldn't  live  in  this  town,  not  if  you  gave  it 
to  me!" 

"It's  not  the  money,  Sam.  What's  twenty  dol- 
lars more  or  less  on  a  business  trip,  and  New- Year's 
Eve  at  that?  But  it's  the  principle  of  the  thing.  I 
hate  to  be  made  a  good  thing  of!" 

"Twenty  bucks!" 

"Yes,  and  like  he  was  doing  me  a  favor,  that 
Louis  Slups  kyin  the  box-office  who  used  to  take 
tickets  in  our  Olympic  at  home.  Somebody  at  the 
last  minute  let  go  of  his  reservation  or  we  couldn't 
have  got  a  table." 

"Twenty  bucks,  and  we  got  to  feel  honored  yet 
that  they  let  us  sit  at  a  table  to  buy  a  dinner!  But 
say,  Herm,  it's  a  great  sight,  ain't  it?" 

"There's  only  one  little  old  New  York!  Got  to 
hand  it  to  this  town — they're  a  gang  of  cut-throats, 
but  they  do  things  up  brown.  A  little  of  it  goes  a 
long  ways,  but  I  always  say  a  trip  to  New  York  isn't 
complete  without  a  night  at  the  Moncrieff  Roof. 
You  sit  here,  Sam,  facing  the  stage." 

"No,  you!  An  old  bachelor  has  got  the  right  to 
sit  closer  to  a  girl-show  than  a  married  man." 

They  drew  up  before  a  small  table  edging  a  shin- 
ing area  of  reserved  floor  space  and  only  once  re- 
moved from  the  burnt-orange  curtains. 

"A-ha!"  exuded  Mr.  Samuel  Kahn,  his  rather 
strongly  aquiline  face  lifted  in  profile. 

"A-ha!"  exuded  Mr.  Loeb,  smiling  out  of  eyes  ten 
years  younger. 

303 


THE   WRONG    PEW 

"What  '11  you  have,  Sam?" 

"Say,  what's  the  difference?  I'll  take  a  cheese 
sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer." 

"Now  cut  that!  Maybe  I  squealed  about  the 
twenty  bucks,  but  that  don't  make  me  out  a  short 
skate.  This  isn't  Cherokee  Garden  at  home,  man. 
I'm  going  to  blow  my  brother-in-law  to  New- Year's 
Eve  in  my  own  way,  or  know  the  reason  why  not. 
Here,  waiter,  a  pint  of  extra  dry  and  a  layout  of 
sandwiches." 

"If  you  can  stand  it,  I  guess  I  can!" 

"It's  not  on  the  firm,  either,  Sam;  it's  on  me!" 

"For  the  price  of  to-night  ma  and  Etta  would 
hang  themselves,  ain't  it?" 

"Say,  we  only  live  once.  I  always  tell  ma  she 
can't  take  it  with  her  when  she  goes.  Anyways,  for 
the  discount  we  got  on  those  Adler  sport  skirts,  we 
can  afford  to  celebrate." 

"Say,  Herman,  I  wish  I  had  a  dime  for  every 
dollar  that  is  spent  up  here  to-night.  Look  at  the 
women!  I  guess  American  men  don't  make  queens 
out  of  their  wives!" 

"For  every  wife  who's  up  here  to-night  I  wouldn't 
take  the  trouble  to  collect  the  dimes,"  said  Mr. 
Loeb,  with  cunning  distinction. 

"I  guess  that  ain't  all  wrong,  neither.  It  isn't 
such  a  pleasure  to  be  away  from  your  family  New- 
Year's  Eve,  but  I  can  assure  you  I'd  rather  have 
Etta  having  her  celebration  with  ma  and  grandma, 
and  maybe  the  Bambergers  over  at  the  house,  than  up 
here  where  even  a  married  woman  can  blush  to  be." 

"Take  it  from  me,  old  man,  a  flannel  petticoat 
303 


HUMORESQUE 

in  the  family  is  worth  all  the  ballet  skirts  on  this 
roof  put  together." 

"I  bought  ma  and  Etta  each  one  of  them  hand- 
bags to-day  at  Lauer's  for  nine  dollars.  What  they 
don't  know  about  the  price  won't  hurt  them.  Two 
for  nine  I'll  tell  them." 

"To  this  day  ma  believes  that  five-hundred-dollar 
bar  pin  I  brought  her  two  years  ago  from  Pittsburgh 
cost  fifty  at  auction." 

"There's  Moe  Marx  from  Kansas  City  .just  com- 
ing in!  Spy  the  blonde  he's  with,  will  you?  I  guess 
Moe  is  used  to  that  from  home,  nix !  There's  a  firm, 
Marx-Jastrow,  made  a  mint  last  year." 

"Look!" 

The  lights  had  sunk  down,  the  sea  of  faces  re- 
ceding into  fog.  The  buzz  died,  too,  and  doors  were 
swung  against  the  steady  shuffle  of  incomers.  From 
behind  the  curtains  a  chime  tonged  roundly  and  in 
one  key.  One — two — three — four — five — six — seven 
— eight — nine — ten — eleven — twelve ! 

Then  the  orange  curtains  parted  and  on  a  gilded 
dais  the  width  of  the  room,  in  startling  relief  against 
a  purple  circle  the  size  of  a  tower  clock,  the  Old 
Year,  hoar  on  his  beard  and  with  limbs  that  shiv- 
ered in  an  attitude  of  abdication,  held  out  an  hour- 
glass to  a  pink-legged  cherub  with  a  gold  band  in 
his  or  her  short  curls. 

A  shout  went  up  and  a  great  clanging  of  forks 
against  frail  glass,  the  pop  of  corks  and  the  quick 
fizz  ensuing.  The  curtains  closed  and  the  lights 
flashed  up.  Time  had  just  sailed  another  knot  into 
space,  and  who  cared? 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

At  a  center  table  a  woman's  slipper  was  already 
going  the  rounds.  It  began  to  sag  and  wine  to  ooze 
through  the  brocade. 

"Well,  Hermie,  here's  a  happy  New  Year  to  you !" 

"And  to  you,  Sam,  and  many  of  'em!" 

"To  ma  and  Etta  and  grandma!" 

"To  Kahn,  Loeb  &  Schulien!" 

"To  Kahn,  Loeb  &  Schulien  and  that  to  this  time 
next  year  we  got  the  Men's  Clothing  Annex." 

They  drank  in  solemn  libation. 

The  curtains  had  parted  again.  A  Pierrot,  chalky 
white,  whistled  in  three  registers,  soprano,  bass,  and 
baser.  A  row  of  soubrettes  rollicked  in  and  out 
again  in  a  flash  of  bushy  skirts. 

"Say,  look  at  the  third  one  from  this  end  with 
the  black  curls  all  bobbing.  I'm  for  her!" 

"Where?" 

"Gone  now!" 

Mr.  Kahn  leaned  across  his  singing  glass,  his  eye 
quickened  into  a  wink. 

"Old  man,  you  can  pull  that  woman-hater  stuff 
on  the  home  folks,  but  it  takes  your  brother-in-law 
to  lead  you  to  the  live  ones.  Eh?" 

"You  dry  up,"  said  Mr.  Loeb,  peering  between 
the  halves  of  a  sandwich. 

On  a  glass  runway  built  over  the  heads  of  the 
assembled,  a  crystal  aisle  for  satin  feet,  the  row  of 
soubrettes  suddenly  appeared,  peering  over  the 
crystal  rail,  singing  down  upon  the  sea  of  marcelled, 
bald,  and  dead  heads.  Men,  sheepish  of  their  smiles 
but  with  the  small  heels  overhead  clanging  like 
castanets  into  their  spirits,  dared  to  glance  up. 

3°S 


HUMORESQUE 

"Gad,  Herman!  What  '11  they  think  up  next? 
Whatta  you  know  about  that — all  those  little  devils 
dancing  right  over  our  heads!" 

"There  she  is!" 

"Who?" 

"The  little  one  in  the  boy's  black-satin  suit,  with 
the  black  curls  bobbing!" 

"Watch  out,  Herm!  You'll  die  of  crick  in  the 
neck." 

"I  don't  see  any  blinkers  on  you!" 

"Hey,  old  man!    Your  mouth's  open." 

"I  know.  I  opened  it,"  said  Mr.  Loeb,  his  head 
back  and  eyes  that  were  suddenly  bold  staring  up 
at  the  twinkling  aisle. 

At  a  table  adjoining,  a  man  reached  up,  flecking 
one  of  the  tiny  black-satin  feet  with  a  whirl  of  his 
napkin. 

Then  Mr.  Herman  Loeb,  of  St.  Louis,  committed 
an  act  of  spontaneous  combustion.  When  came  the 
turn  of  the  black  satin  and  the  bobbing  curls  to  bend 
over  the  rail  directly  above  him,  he  flung  wide  his 
arms,  overturning  a  wine  bottle. 

"Jump!"  he  cried. 

Beneath  the  short,  black  curls  a  mouth  shaped 
like  a  bud  reluctant  to  open,  blew  him  a  kiss.  Then 
came  a  cue  of  music  like  an  avalanche,  and  quicker 
than  Harlequin's  wink  the  aisle  was  clean. 

"Gad!"  said  Mr.  Loeb,  his  strong  profile  thrust 
forward  and  a  light  on  it. 

"That  little  one  with  the  black  curls?  Say! 
You  can  put  her  on  your  watch-fob  and  take  her 
home." 

306 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"Wouldn't  mind!"  said  Mr.  Loeb. 

"You  and  Moe  Marx  are  like  all  the  women - 
haters.  You  don't  know  it,  but  you're  walking  in 
your  sleep  and  the  tenth-story  window's  open." 

"We  oughtn't  to  come  up  here  in  business  clothes," 
said  Mr.  Loeb,  eying  his  cuff-edges. 

A  woman  sang  of  love.  A  chorus,  crowned  and 
girdled  in  inflated  toy  balloons,  wreathed  in  and 
out  among  the  tables. 

"She's  not  in  that  crowd." 

Men  to  whom  life  for  the  most  part  was  grim 
enough  vied  for  whose  cigarette  end  should  prick 
the  painted  bubbles.  A  fusillade  ensued ;  explosions 
on  the  gold-powdered  air — a  battle  de  luxe! 

Mr.  Kahn  threw  back  his  head,  yawned,  and  slid 
a  watch  from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"W-ell,  a  little  of  this  goes  a  long  way.  If  we 
want  to  pull  out  of  this  town  day  after  to-morrow 
we've  got  to  get  down  to  Cedar  Street  early  in  the 
morning  on  that  sweater  job  lot.  It's  about  time 
for  us  to  be  getting  across  to  the  hotel." 

"Wait!"  said  Mr.  Loeb. 

A  jingling  and  a  right  merry  cacophony  of  sound 
came  fast  upon  the  bubble  bombardment,  and  then, 
to  a  light  runnel  of  song,  the  row  of  twenty-four, 
harnessed  in  slotted  sleigh-bells  and  with  little-girl 
flounced  frocks  to  their  very  sophisticated  pink-silk 
knees. 

The  devices  of  vaudeville  are  perennial.  Rigo- 
letto,  who  set  a  court's  sides  aching,  danced  to  bells. 
The  row  of  twenty-four,  pink  and  white  as  if  the 
cradle  had  just  yielded  them  up,  shivered  suddenly 

3o; 


HUMORESQUE 

into  an  ecstasy  of  sound,  the  jerked-up  shoulder  of 
one,  the  tossing  curls  of  another,  the  naughty  shrug 
of  a  third,  eking  out  a  melody. 

A  laugh  rose  off  the  crowd. 

"Say,  this  town  '11  fall  for  anything!  That  act's 
got  barnacles.  But  the  little  devils  look  cute, 
though.  Say — say,  old  man,  cut  that  out !  This  is 
no  place  for  your  mother's  son.  Say!" 

Mr.  Loeb  was  leaning  forward  across  the  table, 
his  head  well  ahead  of  his  shoulders.  From  the 
third  from  the  end  of  the  row  of  twenty-four,  a 
shoulder  shrugging  to  the  musical  nonsense  of  bells 
was  arching  none  too  indirectly  toward  him,  and  once 
the  black  curls  bobbed,  giving  a  share  of  tremolo 
to  the  melody.  But  the  bob  was  carefully  directed, 
and  Herman  Loeb  returned  it  in  fashion,  only  more 
vehemently  and  with  repetition. 

"Say,  Herman,  enough  is  enough!  You'll  have 
her  here  at  the  table  next.  It's  like  Al  Suss  always 
says,  the  reason  he  woke  up  one  morning  and  found 
himself  married  to  the  first  pony  in  the  sextet  was 
because  he  stuck  a  stamp  upside  down  on  a  letter 
to  her  and  found  he  could  be  held  for  a  proposal  in 
stamp  language." 

To  a  great  flare  of  the  Negroid  music,  the  row  of 
twenty-four  suddenly  turned  turtle,  and  prone  on  a 
strip  of  rug,  heads  to  audience  and  faces  to  ceiling, 
twenty-four  pairs  of  legs,  ankleted  in  bells,  kicked 
up  a  syncopated  melody.  From  a  Niagara  of  lace, 
insteps  quivered  an  arpeggio.  A  chromatic  scale 
bounced  off  a  row  of  rapidly  pointing  toes.  The 
third  from  the  end,  seized  with  sudden  chill,  quiv- 

308 


THE   WRONG    PEW 

ered  into  grace  notes,  small  pink  feet  kicking  vio- 
lently to  the  chandelier. 

Men  red  with  laughter  pounded  their  plates.  The 
rhythmic  convulsion  passed  down  the  prostrate  line, 
forty-eight  little  feet  twinkled  a  grand  finale,  and  the 
curtains  swung,  then  opened,  remaining  so. 

The  line  of  twenty-four  danced  down  and  across  the 
wide  hair-line  that  separates  life  and  stage,  butterflies 
sipping  from  table  to  table.  The  cabaret  was  done. 
Lights  resumed,  and  the  business  of  food  and  drink. 

Mr.  Loeb  flung  out  an  arm,  pulling  awry  a  care- 
fully averted  pink  sash. 

"Say,  little  Jingle  Bells,  you  and  your  friend!" 

"Cut  it  out,  Herm!  If  we  want  to  be  down  on 
Cedar  Street  by — " 

"What's  your  hurry,  little  one?" 

"It  ain't  mine;   it  belongs  to  the  management." 

"Won't  you  join  us?" 

"Herm,  that  job-lot  of  sweaters — " 

"Oh,  come  on,  little  Jingle  Bells!" 

"My  friend,  too?" 

"Sure  your  friend." 

They  teetered,  the  two  of  them  like  animated 
dolls,  arm  in  arm,  and  so  at  ease. 

"Here,  you  little  Black  Curls,  sit  next  to  me,  and 
you,  Blondey,  over  there  by  my  brother-in-law." 

"What  '11  you  have,  girls?" 

"Anchovies  and  fine-chopped  onions  for  mine. 
Tell  'em  in  the  kitchen,  waiter,  I  said  fine,  and  if  the 
gentlemen  are  going  to  order  wine,  bring  me  a  plate 
of  oyster  crackers  first  to  take  off  the  edge  of  my 
emptiness." 

309 


HUMORESQUE 

"Sure,  another  bottle  of  wine,  waiter." 

"Hermie,  we — " 

"And  you,  little  Jingle  Bells,  same  as  Blondey's 
order?" 

"Yeh." 

"Say,  you  know  what?" 

"No.    What?" 

"I  fell  for  those  bouncing  black  curls  of  yours  be- 
fore I  was  in  the  place  five  minutes." 

At  that  there  was  an  incredible  flow  of  baby  talk. 

"Gemmemen  ike  ikkie  gurl  wiz  naughty-naughty 
black  curl-curlies?" 

"You  bet  your  life  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Loeb,  un- 
ashamed of  comprehension. 

Mr.  Kahn  flashed  another  look  at  his  watch. 

"Say,  don't  you  know,  you  girls  oughtn't  to  keep 
us  boys  up  so  late.  Ain't  there  no  wear  out  to  you?" 

The  yellow  curls  to  his  right  bounced  sharply. 

"He  asks  if  there's  a  wear  out  to  us,  Cleone?  I 
wish  it  to  you  this  minute,  Baldy,  that  you  had  the 
muscles  in  the  back  of  my  legs.  I  guess  you  think 
it's  choice  for  us  girls  to  come  out  on  the  floor  after 
the  show!" 

"Sylvette!" 

"Yah,  it's  my  New- Year's  resolution  to  tell  the 
truth  for  thirty  minutes  if  I'm  bounced  for  it.  If 
you  got  to  know  it,  it's  a  ten-per-cent.  rake-off  for 
us  girls  on  every  bottle  of  golden  vichy  you  boys 
blow  us  to." 

"Honest,  Sylvette,  you're  wearing  scrambled  eggs 
instead  of  brains  to-night.  Why  don't  you  cry  a 
few  brinies  for  the  gemmemen  while  you're  at  it!" 

310 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

That  so  quickened  Mr.  Loeb's  risibilities  that  he 
dropped  his  hand  over  Miss  Cleone  St.  Claire's,  com- 
pletely covering  yet  not  touching  it. 

"You're  a  scream,  kiddo!   Gee!  I  like  you!" 

She  drank  with  her  chin  flung  up  and  her  throat 
very  white. 

"Bubbles!   Bubbles!   God  bless  all  my  troubles!" 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  said  Mr.  Kahn,  smiling  at 
her. 

"The  gemmemen  from  out  of  town?" 

"St.  Louis." 

"I  had  a  friend  out  there — Joe  Kelsannie,  of  Albu- 
querque. Remember  him,  Sylvette?" 

"Do  I!" 

"I'm  going  out  there  myself  some  day  if  the  going's 
good,  and  get  me  a  cowboy  west  of  Newark." 

Mr.  Loeb  leaned  forward,  smiling  into  her  quick- 
fire  eyes. 

"I'll  take  you!" 

"Stick  her  on  your  watch-fob,  Herman." 

"No,  sirree,  I'll  take  her  life  size." 

"Watch  out,  Hermie;  remember  the  upside-down 
postage  stamp!" 

"Want  to  go,  Jingle  Bells?" 

"Sure." 

"But  I'm  on  the  level,  little  one.  No  kidding.  Day 
after  to-morrow.  St.  Louis — with  me!" 

Miss  Cleone  St.  Claire  drew  herself  up,  the  doll 
look  receding  somewhat  from  her  gaze. 

"Say,  bo,  you  got  me  wrong.    I'm  one  of  the  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  thousand  chorus  girls  you 
could  introduce  your  sister  to.    Aren't  I,  Syl?" 
21 


HUMORESQUE 

"You  let  that  kid  alone,"  said  Miss  Sylvette  de 
Long,  in  a  tone  not  part  of  her  r61e.  "When  the 
traffic  policeman  sticks  up  his  mitt  it's  time  to  halt, 
see?"  Lines  not  before  discernible  in  Miss  De  Long's 
face  had  long  since  begun  to  creep  out,  smoky 
shadows  beneath  her  eyes  and  a  sunburst  of  fine 
lines  showing  through  the  powder  like  stencil  designs. 

"Come  on,  Herm.  It's  getting  late,  and  if  we  want 
to  be  down  on  Cedar — 

"You  think  I'm  kidding  this  little  black-eyed 
chum  of  yours,  don't  you,  Blondey?" 

"Sure  not!  You  want  'er  to  grace  the  head  of  your 
table  and  wear  the  family  heirlooms!" 

"Well,  Sam,  you're  my  brother-in-law — married 
to  my  own  sister  and  living  under  the  same  roof 
with  me — am  I  a  habitual  lady-fusser,  or  do  they 
call  me  Hermie  the  Hermit  at  home?" 

"Never  knew  him  to  talk  ten  straight  words  to 
a  skirt  before,  girls,"  said  Mr.  Kahn  through  a  yawn; 
"and  if  you  don't  believe  it,  go  out  and  ask  Louis 
Slupsky,  who  used  to  play  chimes  with  him." 

"Say,  you,"  said  Miss  De  Long,  edging  slightly, 
"you're  about  as  funny  as  a  machine-gun,  you  are! 
If  you  got  a  private  life,  why  ain't  you  back  in  St. 
Louis  a  night  like  this,  showing  her  and  the  kids  a 
good  time?" 

She  was  frankly  tired,  her  eyelids  darkening. 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  was,"  said  Mr.  Kahn,  sud- 
denly. "Take  it  from  me,  girl,  it  was  nothing  but  a 
business  hang-over  kept  me.  Come,  Herm,  if  we — 

"You  think  I'm  kidding  little  Jingle  Bells,  don't 
you?" 

312 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

Miss  St.  Claire  sat  back  against  her  chair;  her 
black  eyes  had  quieted.  "If  you  ain't  kidding  you 
must  be  crazy  with  the  heat  or  dr — 

"Look  at  my  glass.    Have  I  touched  it?" 

"The  man's  raving,  Syl!  Wants  to  marry  me  and 
take  me  back  to  St.  Louis,  Thursday." 

"Cut  the  comedy  and  come!  Herm,  it's  getting 
on  to  three  in  the  morning." 

"This  little  girl  keeps  thinking  I'm  kidding, 
Blondey.  I  always  knew  if  I  ever  fell  for  matrimony 
it  would  be  just  like  this.  Right  off  the  reel.  No 
funny  business.  Just  bing!  Bang!  Done!" 

"Catch  me  while  I  swoon — but  he  sounds  on  the 
level,  Cleone." 

"Well,  what  if  he  is?  Of  aU  the  nerve!  Whatta 
you  know  about  me?  How  do  you  know  I  haven't 
got  three  kids  and  a  crippled  husband  at  home? 
How  do  you  know — ?" 

"I  know,  little  Jingle  Bells!  Why,  I  was  as  sure 
of  you,  the  minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  you,  as  if  we'd 
been  raised  next  door  to  each  other.  I  can  see  right 
down  in  your  little  life  like  it  was  this  glass  of 
wine." 

Miss  St.  Claire  threw  out  her  arms  in  a  beautiful 
and  sleepy  gesture. 

"Well,  boys,  this  is  a  nice  little  party,  but  I  got 
to  get  up  at  three  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon, 
and  I  need  the  sleep.  Oh,  how  I  love  my  morning 
sleep !"  She  drew  back,  her  bare  outflung  arm  push- 
ing her  from  the  table.  "If  you'll  call  me  and  my 
room-mate  a  taxi — 

"No,  you  don't,  Jingle  Bells!" 


HUMORESQUE 

He  placed  a  hand  that  trembled  slightly  on  the 
sleeved  part  of  her  arm.  She  opened  wider  her  very 
wide  black  eyes. 

"Are  you  bats?"  she  said. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  you  and  take  you  home  with 
me,  if  I  have  to  carry  you  off  like  a  partridge." 

"Cleone,  I  tell  you  the  man  means  it!" 

"You're  right,  Blondey.  I  never  meant  anything 
more  in  my  life." 

A  sudden  shortness  of  manner  crept  over  Mr. 
Kahn. 

"Man,  you're  drunk!"  he  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet. 

"See  my  glass!" 

"Then  you're  crazy!" 

"Sit  down,  old  Baldy.  Why's  he  crazy?  That 
little  room-mate  of  mine  is  as  straight  a  little  girl 
as—" 

"Why,  I  tell  you  he's  crazy!  That  man's  the 
head  of  a  big  business.  He  can't  kick  up  any  non- 
sense like  this.  Come  on,  Herm,  cut  the  comedy. 
It's  time  we  were  getting  across  to  our  hotel.  Look 
at  the  crowd  thinning,  and  what's  left  is  getting 
rough.  Come!" 

"If  you  don't  know  how  to  behave  yourself,  Sam, 
in  the  presence  of  these  ladies,  maybe  you  better 
go  back  to  the  hotel  alone.  I'm  going  to  see  these 
young  ladies  to  their  door,  and  before  we  go  me  and 
this  little  girl  are  going  to  understand  each  other." 

Mr.  Kahn  sat  down  again  in  some  stupefaction. 

"Well,  of  all  the  nerve!  Who  are  you?  Whatta 
you  think  I  am?  Syl,  what's  his  game?" 

3*4 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

Miss  De  Long  thrust  forward  her  tired  and  thin- 
ning face;  her  eyes  had  a  mica  gleam. 

"Cleone,  he  wants  to  marry  you.  A  decent  man 
with  a  decent  face  from  a  decent  town  has  taken  a 
shine  to  you  and  wants  to  marry  you.  M-a-r-r-y! 
Do  you  get  it,  girl?" 

"How  do  you  know  he's  decent?  I  don't  know 
no  more  about  him  than  he  knows  about  me.  I— 

"'Ain't  you  got  no  hunch  on  life,  girl?  Look  at 
him!  That's  how  I  know  he's  decent.  So  would 
you  if  you'd  been  in  this  business  as  long  as  me. 
Can't  you  tell  a  real  honest-to-God  man  when  you 
see  one?  A  business  man  at  that!" 

"You  got  me  right,  Blondey.  Kahn,  Loeb  & 
Schulien,  Ladies'  Wear,  St.  Louis.  Here's  my  card. 
You  give  me  an  hour  to-morrow,  Jingle  Bells,  and 
I'll  do  all  the  credential  stuff  your  little  heart  de- 
sires. Louis  Slupsky  knows  me  and  my  whole 
family.  His  mother  used  to  stuff  feather  pillows  for 
mine.  Kahn  here  is  my  brother-in-law  and  partner 
in  business.  He's  a  slow  cuss  and  'ain't  grasped  the 
situation  yet.  But  are  you  on,  little  one?  Is  it  St. 
Louis  Thursday  morning,  as  Mrs. —  ?" 

"Herm!    You're  cr— " 

"Syl— what  '11  I— do?" 

"An  on-the-level  guy,  Cleone.  Marry!  Do  you 
hear?  M-a-r-r-y!  Say,  and  it  couldn't  happen  to 
me!" 

"Herman,  man,  I  tell  you  you're  off  your  head. 
Think  once  of  your  home — ma,  Etta,  grandma — 
with  a  goy  girl  that — " 

"Easy  there,   Baldy,   you're  adding  up  wrong. 


HUMORESQUE 

You  and  her  both  celebrates  the  same  Sundays.  If 
anybody  should  ask  you  for  Sylvette  de  Long's  birth 
certificate,  look  it  up  under  the  P's.  Birdie  Poz- 
ner.  It's  the  same  with  my  friend.  Cleone,  tell 
the  gernmemen  your  real  name!  Well,  I'll  tell  it  for 
you.  Sadie  Mosher,  sister  to  the  great  Felix  Mosher 
who  played  heavy  down  at  Shefsky's  theater  for 
twenty  years.  Goyl  Say,  Sammie,  it's  too  bad  a 
nut  from  the  bug-house  bought  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
to-day  or  I'd  try  to  sell  it  to  you." 

"Little  Jingle  Bells,  if  I  put  you  in  a  taxi  now 
and  shoot  up  those  credentials,  will  you  marry  me 
to-morrow  at  noon?" 

"I— oh,  I  dunno." 

"  Marry,  he  says  to  you,  girl.  Think  of  the  minus 
number  of  times  girls  like  us  get  that  little  word 
whispered  to  'em.  Think  of  the  short  season.  Mon- 
crieff's  grouch.  The  back  muscles  of  your  legs! 
Marry,  he  says  to  you,  girl!  Marry!" 

"To-morrow  at  noon,  little  one?" 

"I— I  sleep  till  three." 

"And  it  couldn't  'a'  been  me!" 

"Little  Jingle  Bells?" 

"Why,  y-yes,  I— I'm  on." 

At  three  o'clock  on  Wednesday  afternoon,  in  a 
magistrate's  office,  beneath  a  framed  engraving  of  a 
judicial  court  in  wigged  session,  Herman  Schulien 
Loeb  and  Sadie  Helen  Mosher  became  as  one.  A 
bar  of  scant  metropolitan  sunshine,  miraculously 
let  in  by  a  cleft  between  two  skyscrapers,  lay  at  the 
feet  of  the  bride. 

316 


THE   WRONG    PEW 

Slightly  arear  of  them:  Mr.  Louis  Slupsky;  Mr. 
Samuel  Kahn,  with  a  tinge  the  color  of  apoplexy  in 
his  face;  and  Miss  Sylvette  de  Long,  her  face  thrust 
forward  as  if  she  heard  melody.  The  voice  of  the 
magistrate  rose  like  a  bird  in  slow  flight,  then  settled 
to  a  brief  drone. 

East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  and  St.  Louis  is 
neither.  It  lies  like  a  mediator,  the  westerly  hand 
of  the  east  end  of  the  country  stretching  across  the 
sullenest  part  of  the  Mississippi  to  clasp  the  easterly 
hand  of  the  west  end  of  the  country. 

Indians  have  at  one  time  or  another  left  their 
chirography  upon  the  face  of  St.  Louis.  But  all  that 
is  effaced  now  under  the  hot  lava  of  Americanism 
that  is  covering  the  major  cities  in  more  or  less  even 
layers.  Now  it  stands  atop  its  Indian  mounds,  a 
metropolis  of  almost  a  million  souls,  a  twenty-story 
office-building  upon  the  site  of  an  old  trading-post, 
and  a  subway  threatening  the  city's  inners.  There 
is  a  highly  restricted  residence  district  given  over  to 
homes  of  the  most  stucco  period  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  and  an  art-museum,  as  high  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill  as  the  Athenians  loved  to  build.  St. 
Louis  has  not  yet  a  Champs-Elysees  or  a  Fifth 
Avenue.  And  of  warm  evenings  it  takes  its  walks 
without  hats.  Neither  is  the  cafe  or  the  cabaret  its 
evening  solace. 

It  dines,  even  in  its  renaissance  section,  placidly 
chez  soi;  the  family  activities  of  the  day  here  thrown 
into  a  common  pool  of  discussion. 

On  Washington  Boulevard,  probably  sixty  dollars 


HUMORESQUE 

a  foot  removed  from  the  renaissance  section,  architec- 
ture suddenly  turns  an  indifferent  shoulder  to  period, 
Queen  Anne  rubbing  sloping  roof  with  neighbor's 
concrete  sleeping-porch  of  the  hygienic  period.  Only 
the  building-line  is  maintained,  the  houses  sitting 
comfortably  back  and  a  well-hosed  strip  of  sidewalk, 
bordered  in  hardy  maples,  running  clear  and  white 
out  to  De  Balaviere  Avenue,  where  the  art-nouveau 
apartment-house  begins  to  invade.  In  winter  bare 
branches  meet  in  deadlock  over  this  walk.  On  the 
smooth  macadamized  road  of  Washington  Boule- 
vard automobiles  try  out  their  speed  limit. 

One  such  wintry  day,  with  the  early  dusk  already 
invading,  Mrs.  Herman  Loeb,  with  red  circles  round 
her  very  black  eyes,  and  her  unrouged  face  rather 
blotched,  sat  in  one  of  the  second-floor-front  rooms 
of  a  double  buff-brick  house  on  Washington  Boule- 
vard, hunched  up  in  a  red- velvet  chair,  chin  cupped 
in  palm,  and  gazing,  through  perfectly  adjusted 
Honiton  lace  curtains,  at  the  steady  line  of  home- 
to-dinner  motor-cars. 

Warmth  lay  in  that  room,  and  a  conservative 
mahogany  elegance — a  great  mahogany  double  bed, 
immaculately  covered  in  white,  with  a  large  mono- 
gram heavily  hand-embroidered  in  its  center;  a 
mahogany  swell-front  dresser,  with  a  Honiton  lace 
cover  and  a  precise  outlay  of  monogramed  silver. 
Over  it  a  gilt-framed  French  engraving  with  "Ma- 
ternal Love"  writ  in  elegant  script  beneath.  A  two- 
toned  red  rug  ate  in  footsteps. 

Mrs.  Loeb  let  her  head  fall  back  against  the 
chair  and  closed  her  eyes.  In  her  dark-stuff  dress 


THE   WRONG    PEW 

with  its  sheer-white  collar,  she  was  part  of  the 
note  of  the  room,  except  that  her  small  bosom  rose 
and  fell  too  rapidly.  A  pungent  odor  of  cookery 
began  to  invade;  the  street  lamps  of  Washington 
Boulevard  to  pop  out.  The  door  from  the  hallway 
opened,  but  at  the  entrance  of  her  mother-in-law 
Mrs.  Loeb  did  not  rise,  only  folded  one  foot  closer 
under  her. 

"You,  Sadie?" 

"Yes." 

"Herman  home  yet?" 

"No." 

"Smell?    I  fixed  him  red  cabbage  to-night." 

"Yes,  I  smell." 

"How  she  sits  here  in  the  dark.  Thank  goodness, 
Sadie,  electricity  we  don't  have  to  economize  on." 

She  pushed  a  wall  key,  a  center  chandelier  of 
frosted  electric  bulbs  springing  into  radiance.  In 
its  immediate  glare  Mrs.  Loeb  regarded  her  daughter- 
in-law,  inert  there  beside  the  window. 

"Get  your  embroidery,  Sadie,  and  come  down  by 
me  and  Etta  till  the  men  get  home  to  supper.  I 
want  her  to  show  you  that  cut-work  stitch  she's 
putting  in  her  lunch  napkins." 

"Ugh!" 

"What?" 

Mrs.  Bertha  Loeb  approached  with  the  forward 
peer  of  the  nearsighted.  Time  and  maternity  had 
had  their  whacks  at  her  figure,  her  stoutness 
enhanced  by  a  bothersome  shelf  of  bust,  but  her 
face — the  same  virile  profile  of  her  son's  and  with 
the  graying  hair  parted  tightly  from  it — guiltless  of 

319 


HUMORESQUE 

lines,  except  now,  regarding  her  daughter-in-law,  a 
horizontal  crease  came  into  her  brow. 

"You  want  to  go  sit  a  while  by  grandma,  then?" 

"No.  Gee!  can't — can't  a  girl  just  sit  up  in  her 
room  quiet?  I'm  all  right." 

"I  didn't  say,  Sadie,  you  wasn't  all  right.  Only 
a  young  girl  with  everything  to  be  thankful  for  don't 
need  to  sit  up  in  her  room  like  it  was  a  funeral,  with 
her  mother  and  sister  and  grandma  in  the  same 
house." 

On  the  mahogany  arms  of  her  chair  Mrs.  Herman 
Loeb's  small  hand  closed  in  a  tight  fist  over  her 
damp  wad  of  handkerchief. 

"I— I—" 

"What?" 

"Nothing." 

"Sadie,  you  been  crying  again." 

"What  if  I  have?" 

"A  fine  answer  from  a  girl  to  her  mother." 

"I — you — you  drive  me  to  it — your  questions — 

"I  shouldn't  have  the  interest  of  my  own  son's 
wife  at  heart!" 

"Can't  a  girl  get— get  blue?" 

"Blue?" 

"Yes,  blue." 

Mrs.  Bertha  Loeb  reached  out  her  hand  with  its 
wide  marriage  band  slightly  indented  in  flesh;  the 
back  of  that  hand  was  speckled  with  large,  lightish 
freckles  and  trembled  slightly. 

"Sadie,  ain't  there  just  no  way  we  can  make  you 
feel  happy  in  St.  Louis?  Last  night  through  the 
door  to  my  room  I  couldn't  help  hear  again  you  and 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

Herman  with  a  scene.  Take  your  feet  down  off  the 
plush,  Sadie." 

"Oh  yes,  you  heard,  all  right." 

"'Ain't  you  got  a  good  home  here,  Sadie?  Every- 
thing in  the  world  a  girl  could  wish  for !  A  husband 
as  good  as  gold,  like  his  poor  dead  father  before 
him.  'Ain't  we  done  everything,  me  and  my  Etta, 
to  make  you  feel  how — how  glad  we  are  to  have  you 
for  our  Hermie's  wife?" 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know." 

"What  maybe  we  felt  in  the  beginning — well, 
wasn't  it  natural,  an  only  son  and  coming  such  a 
surprise — all  that's  over  now.  Why,  it's  a  pleasure 
to  see  how  grandma  she  loves  you." 

"I— I'm  all  right,  I  tell  you." 

"Didn't  we  even  fix  it  you  should  go  in  a  flat  on 
Waterman  Avenue  housekeeping  for  yourself,  if  you 
wanted  it?" 

"Yes,  and  tie  myself  down  to  this  dump  yet.  Not 
much!" 

"Well,  I  only  hope,  Sadie  Loeb,  you  never  got 
in  your  life  to  live  in  a  worse  dump.  I  know  this 
much,  I  have  tried  to  do  my  part.  Did  I  sign  over 
this  house  to  you  and  Herman  for  a  wedding  present, 
giving  only  to  my  own  daughter  the  row  of  Grand 
Avenue  stores?" 

"I  never  said  you  didn't." 

"Have  you  got  the  responsibility  even  to  run 
your  own  house,  with  me  and  Etta  carrying  it  on 
like  always?" 

"Am  I  complaining?" 

"Do  I  ask  of  you  one  thing,  Sadie,  except  maybe 
321 


HUMORESQUE 

that  you  learn  a  little  housekeeping  and  watch  how 
I  order  from  the  butcher,  things  that  every  wife 
should  know  if  she  needs  it  or  not?  In  the  whole 
year  you  been  my  daughter,  Sadie,  have  I  asked  of 
you  more  than  you  should  maybe  help  the  up-stairs% 
girl  a  little  mornings,  and  do  a  little  embroidery  for 
your  linen-chest,  and  that  maybe,  instead  of  sleep- 
ing so  late  till  noon  every  morning,  you  should  get 
up  and  have  breakfast  with  your  husband?" 

"If  you  begin  going  over  all  that  again  I — I'll 
just  yell!" 

"With  anybody  pouting  in  the  house  I  just  'ain't 
got  heart  to  do  nothing.  I  don't  see,  Sadie,  that 
you  had  such  fine  connections  in  the  East  that  you 
shouldn't  be  satisfied  here." 

"You  just  leave  my  friends  in  the  East  out  of  it. 
If  you  wanna  know  it,  they're  a  darn  sight  better 
than  the  wads  of  respectability  I  see  waddlin'  in 
here  to  swap  Kaffee  Klatsches  with  you!" 

"Just  let  me  tell  you,  Sadie  Loeb,  you  can  be 
proud  such  ladies  call  on  you.  A  girl  what  don't 
think  no  more  of  her  husband's  business  connections 
than  not  to  come  down-stairs  when  Mrs.  Nathan 
Bamberger  calls!  Maybe  our  friends  out  here  got 
being  good  wifes  and  good  housekeepers  on  the  brain 
more  as  high  kicking  in  New  York;  but  just  the 
same  Mrs.  Nathan  Bamberger,  what  can  buy  and 
sell  you  three  times  over,  ain't  ashamed  to  go  in  her 
Lindell  Avenue  kitchen,  when  her  husband  or  her 
son  likes  red  cabbage,  what  you  can't  hire  cooked, 
or  once  in  a  while  a  miltz." 

"Say,  if  I've  heard  that  once,  I've — " 
322 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"Then,  too,  Sadie,  since  we're  talking — it's  a  little 
thing — I  haven't  liked  to  talk  about  it,  but  I — I  got 
the  first  time  I  should  hear  the  word  ma  on  your 
lips.  You  think  it's  so  nice  that  a  daughter-in-law 
should  always  call  me  'Say,'  like  a  bed-post?" 

"I — I  can't,  Mrs.  Loeb— it — it  just  won't  come— 
mother." 

"Don't  tell  me  you  don't  know  any  better!  A 
girl  what  can  be  so  nice  with  poor  old  blind  grand- 
ma, like  you  been,  can  be  nice  with  her  mother- 
in-law  and  sister-in-law,  too,  if  she  wants  to  be. 
I  didn't  want  I  should  ever  have  to  talk  to  you  like 
this,  Sadie,  but  sometimes  a  —  a  person  she  just 
busts  out." 

And  then  Mrs.  Herman  Loeb  leaped  forward  in 
her  chair,  her  small  tight  fist  pounding  each  word: 

"Then  let  me  go!  Whatta  you  holding  me  here 
for?  Let  me  go  back,  Mrs. — mother!  Let  me  go! 
I  don't  deny  it,  you're  too  good  for  me  round  here. 
I  don't  fit!  Let  me  go  back  to  the  old  room  and— 
my  old  room-mate  where — where  I  belong  with  my 
— my  crowd.  You  tell  what  you  just  said  to  Herm ! 
Get  him  to  let  me  go  back  with  him  on  his  trip  to- 
morrow night.  Please,  Mrs. — mother — please!" 

"You  mean  to  New  York  with  him  on  his  busi- 
ness trip  for  a  visit?" 

"Call  it  that  if  you  want  to,  only  let  me  go! 
You — you  can  tell  them  later  that — that  I  ain't 
coming  back.  I — I've  begged  him  so!  I  don't  be- 
long here.  You  just  said  as  much  yourself.  I  don't 
belong  here.  Let  me  go,  Mrs.  Loeb.  Let  me  go! 
You  tell  him,  Mrs.  Loeb,  to  let  me  go." 

323 


HUMORESQUE 

Mrs.  Bertha  Loeb  suddenly  sat  down,  and  the 
color  flowed  out  of  her  face. 

"That  I  should  live  to  see  this  day!  My  Her- 
man's wife  wants  to  leave  him!  Oh,  my  son,  my 
son !  What  did  you  do  to  yourself !  A  di — a  separa- 
tion in  the  Loeb  family!  I  knew  last  night  when  I 
heard  through  the  door  and  how  worried  my  poor 
boy  has  looked  for  months,  that  it  didn't  mean  no 
good.  Since  her  first  month  here  I've  seen  it  com- 
ing. I  did  my  part  to— 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Loeb,  and  I  done  my  part!" 

"Oh — oh — oh,  and  how  that  boy  of  mine  has 
catered  to  her!  Humored  her  every  whim  to  keep 
her  contented!  I  always  say  it's  the  nix-nux  wives 
get  the  most  attentions  and  thanks  from  their  hus- 
bands. I—" 

"I  done  my  part.  I've  tried  as  much  as  you  to 
make  myself  fit  in  out  here.  I — I  just  ain't  your 
kind,  Mrs.  Loeb.  Yours  and — Etta's.  I — I  can't  be 
saving  and  economical  when  I  see  there's  plenty  to 
spend.  I — I  was  raised  with  my  brother  down  in 
Shefsky's  theater,  where  nobody  cares  about  mono- 
gramed  guest  towels  and  about  getting  up  before 
noon  if  they  don't  want  to.  The  evenings  here  kill 
me!  Kill  me!  I  hate  pinochle!  I  gotta  have  life, 
Mrs.  Loeb.  I  hate  Kaffee  Klatsches  with  a  lot  of — I 
— I  tell  you  I  got  different  blood  in  my  veins,  Mrs. 
Loeb,  I—" 

"No,  no,  Sadie  Mosher  Loeb,  that  kind  of  talk 
don't  go.  You  got  just  the  same  shabbos  like  us. 
Saturday  is  your — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  in  the  right  church,  all  right,  Mrs, 
324 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

Loeb,  but  I'm  in  the  wrong  pew.     Mrs.  Loeb,  please 
can't  you  understand  I'm  in  the  wrong  pew!" 

And  all  her  carefully  confined  curls,  springing  their 
pins,  she  fell  forward  a  shivering  mass. 

In  that  surcharged  moment  and  briskly  exuding 
a  wintry  out-of-doors,  Mr.  Herman  Loeb  entered  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  open  doorway,  in  the  act 
of  removing  his  greatcoat. 

"Herman,  my  son!     Oh,  my  son!" 

"What's  wrong,  ma?     Sadie!" 

"It's  come,  Herman,  like  I  always  predicted  to 
Etta  it  would.  Your  wife,  my  poor  boy,  she  wants 
to  leave  you.  This  should  happen  to  a  Loeb  yet — 
a  separation  in  the  family!  My  poor  boy!  My 
poor  boy!" 

"Why,  ma,  what  —  what's  Sadie  been  telling 
you?"  ' 

At  that  Mrs.  Herman  Loeb  raised  her  streaming 
face,  her  eyes  all  rid  of  their  roguery  and  stretched 
in  despair. 

"I  didn't  want  to  let  out  to  her,  Herman.  I 
wanted  to  make  a  quiet  get-away,  you  know  I  did. 
But  she  nagged  me!  She  nagged  me!" 

"Ma,  you  shouldn't—" 

"She  heard  us  last  night  and  Heaven  knows  how 
many  nights  before  that.  She's  wise.  She  knows. 
She  knows  it's  been  a  year  of  prison  here  for — 

"Oh,  my  poor  boy!     Prison!     A  girl  like  her  finds 
herself  married  into  one  of  the  most  genteel  families 
in  St.  Louis,  a  girl  what  never  in  her  life  was  used  to , 
even  decent  sheets  to  sleep  on!" 

"Ma!" 

325 


HUMORESQUE 

"Till  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  she  told  me 
herself  how  her  and  them  girls  used  to  sleep,  two  and 
three  in  a  boarding-house  room,  and  such  a  mess!" 

"Ma,  if  you  and  Sadie  don't  cut  out  this  rowing 
I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  go  back  down- town  where 
I  came  from.  What  is  this,  anyway,  a  barroom  or 
a  home  out  on  Washington  Boulevard?  You  want 
grandma  to  hear  you?  Ma!  Sadie!" 

"My  poor  boy!     My  poor  boy!" 

"I  didn't  start  it,  Herm.  I  was  sitting  up  here 
quiet.  All  I  ask,  Herm,  is  for  you  to  take  me  back 
to  New  York  to-morrow  night  on  your  trip.  Let  me 
go,  Herm,  for — for  an  indefinite  stay.  It  ain't  this 
house,  Herm,  and  it  ain't  your  mother  or  your  sister 
and — and  it  ain't  you — it  ain't  any  one.  It's  all  of 
you  put  together!  I  can't  stand  the  speed  out  here! 
There  ain't  none!" 

"I  guess  she  wants,  Hermie,  for  her  bad-girl 
notions  you  should  give  up  the  best  retail  business 
in  St.  Louis  and  take  her  to  live  in  New  York, 
where  she  can  always  be  in  with  that  nix-nux 
theatri — " 

"No,  no,  he  knows  I  don't  want  that!" 

"If  she  did,  ma,  we'd  go!" 

"Herm  knows  it  was  all  a  mistake  with  me.  I 
didn't  know  my  own  mind.  I  wanna  go  back  along 
where  I  came  from  and  where  I  belong!  It  ain't  like 
I  was  the  kind  of  a  girl  with  another  man  in  the 
case — " 

"We  should  thank  her,  Hermie,  that  there  ain't 
more  scandal  mixed  up  in  it  yet!" 

"Ma!" 

326 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"My  poor  boy,  what  could  have  had  his  pick 
from  the  first  girls  in  St. — " 

"Ma!" 

There  was  an  edge  to  Mr.  Loeb's  voice  that  had 
the  bite  of  steel.  He  tossed  his  greatcoat  to  the 
snowy  bed,  walking  between  the  bed-end  and  the 
mantel,  round  to  the  crouched  figure  of  his  wife. 

"There,  there,  Sadie!"  he  said  in  his  throat,  and, 
stooping  over  her :  "I  give  in!  I  give  in!" 

Her  head  flew  up. 

"Herm!" 

"My  son!" 

"No,  no,  ma,  it's  no  use  trying  to  put  anything 
but  a  jingle-bell  harness  on  poor  little  Jingle  Bells. 
She  don't  understand  us  any  more  than  we — we 
can  understand  her!" 

"That's  it,  Herm;  that's  why  I  say  if  you'll  only 
let  me  go!" 

"Oh,  my  God!  A  separation  in  the  Loeb  family! 
My  poor  dead  husband!  My  daughter  Etta,  presi- 
dent of  the  Ladies'  Auxiliary!  Grandma — " 

'"Sh-h-h,  ma!    You  want  grandma  to  hear?" 

"My  son,  the  cleanest,  finest — " 

"Ma!"  There  were  lines  in  his  face  as  if  a  knot 
at  his  heart  were  tightening  them.  "You  mustn't 
blame  her,  ma;  and,  Sadie,  you  mustn't  feel  this 
way  toward  my  mother.  Nobody's  to  blame.  I've 
been  thinking  this  thing  over  more  than  you  think, 
Sadie,  and  I — I  give  in.  She's  a  poor  little  thing, 
ma,  that's  been  trapped  into  something  she  can't 
fit  into." 

"Yes,  Herm,  that's  it." 

22  327 


"It's  natural.  My  fault,  too.  I  carried  her  off 
like  a  partridge.  Don't  cry,  little  Jingle  Bells! 
To-morrow  night  we  leave  for  New  York,  and  when 
I  come  back  you're  going  to  stay  on  with — " 

"Sylvette  says—" 

"With  friends,  indefinitely.  Don't  cry,  little 
Jingle  Bells,  don't!  'Sh-h-h,  ma!  There,  didn't  I 
tell  you  you'cl  rouse  grandma!" 

With  her  hands  stuffed  against  rising  sobs,  his 
mother  ceased  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  her 
straight  chair,  her  eyes  straining  through  the  open 
door.  A  thin  voice  came  through,  querulous,  and 
then  the  tap-tap  of  a  cane. 

Mr.  Herman  Loeb  answered  the  voice,  standing 
quiet  at  the  bed-end. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,  grandma." 

"Come  and  get  me,  Herman." 

"Yes,  grandma." 

He  hastened  out  and  re-entered  almost  immedi- 
ately, leading  Mrs.  Simon  Schulien,  her  little  figure 
so  fragile  that  the  hand  directing  the  cane  quavered 
of  palsy,  and  the  sightless  face,  so  full  of  years  and 
even  some  of  their  sweetness,  fallen  in  slightly,  in 
presage  of  dust  to  dust. 

"Bertha?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"Here,  grandma,  by  the  window  is  your  chair." 

He  lowered  her  to  the  red-velvet  arm-chair,  placing 
her  cane  gently  alongside. 

"So!" 

She  moved  her  sightless  face  from  one  to  the 
other,  interrogating  each  presence. 

328 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"Sadie?" 

"Yes,  grandma." 

"How  you  holler,  children!  Everything  ain't 
right?" 

"Yes,  grandma.  Ma  and  Sadie  and  me  been  mak- 
ing plans.  To-morrow  night  Sadie  goes  with  me  to 
New  York  on  my  trip.  A  little  pleasure  trip." 

The  little  face,  littler  with  each  year,  broke  into 
smile. 

"So,  little  Sadie-sha,  you  got  good  times,  not? 
A  good  husband  and  good  times?  New  York!  To 
New  York  she  goes,  Bertha?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Schulien  fell  to  crooning  slightly,  redigesting 
with  the  senility  of  years. 

"To  New  York!  Nowadays  young  wives  got  it 
good.  How  long  you  stay,  Hermie?" 

"It's  just  my  Pittsburgh-New  York  trip,  grand- 
ma." 

"Sadie,  come  here  by  grandma." 

She  approached  with  the  tears  drying  on  her 
face,  her  bosom  heaving  in  suppressed  jerks. 

"Yes,  grandma."  And  patted  the  little  clawlike 
hand,  and  the  bit  of  white  hair  beneath  the  fluted 
cap,  and  a  bit  of  old  lace  fastened  with  an  old  ivory 
cameo  and  covering  the  old  throat. 

"You  got  good  times,  not?" 

"Yes,  grandma." 

"And  you'm  a  good  girl,  Sadie.     Eh?    Eh?" 

"Y-yes,  grandma." 

"When  you  come  back  from  New  York,  you  bring 
grandma  a  fine  present,  not?" 

329 


HUMORESQUE 

"Yes,  yes,  grandma." 

"A  quilted  underjacket  wholesale,  for  when  grand- 
ma rides  out  in  the  wheel-chair." 
"Y-yes,  grandma." 

To  the  saturnine,  New  York  of  its  spangled 
nights  is  like  a  Scylla  of  a  thousand  heads,  each 
head  a  menace.  Glancing  from  his  cab  window  one 
such  midnight,  an  inarticulate  expression  of  that 
fear  must  have  crept  over  and  sickened  Mr.  Herman 
Loeb.  He  reached  out  and  placed  his  enveloping 
hand  over  that  of  his  wife. 

"Well,  Sadie,  you  take  good  care  of  yourself,  girl. 
No  matter  how  we  decide  to — to  end  this  thing,  re- 
member you're  my  wife — yet." 

"Yes,  Herman,"  said  Mrs.  Loeb,  through  a  gulp. 

"Don't  stint,  and  remember  how  easily  you  get 
cold  from  draughts." 

"I  won't.     I  will." 

"If  you  find  yourself  too  crowded  in  that  room  with 
your  friend,  get  a  better  one  farther  away  from  the 
theaters,  where  it  isn't  so  noisy — maybe  by  your- 
self." 

"I'll  see." 

"You  won't  be  afraid  to  go  back  to  that  room 
now,  with  Sylvette  still  at  the  show?" 

"N-no."  ' 

"If  I  was  you — now  mind,  I'm  only  suggesting  it 
— but  if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  be  in  such  a  hurry 
about  getting  back  in  that  roof  show,  Sadie.  May- 
be in  a  few  days  something  better  may  show  up  or — 
or  you'll  change  your  mind  or  something." 

330 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"I  gotta  get  back  to  work  to  keep  from  thinking. 
Anyway,  I  don't  want  to  be  sponging  on  you  any 
longer  than  I  can  help." 

"You're  my  wife,  aren't  you?" 

She  sat,  a  small  cold  huddle  in  the  center  of  the 
cab  seat,  toward  him  her  quivering  face  flashing  out 
as  street  lamps  bounced  past.  They  were  nearing 
the  great  marble  fagade  of  the  Seventh  Avenue 
Terminal. 

"Herman,  I — I  hate  to  see  everything  bust  up  like 
this — you — you  such  a  prince  and  all — but  like 
Syl  says,  I — I  guess  all  fools  ain't  dead  yet!" 

"You've  had  time  to  work  this  thing  out  for 
yourself  now,  Sadie,  but  like  I  was  saying  before, 
anybody  can  play  stubborn,  but — but  it's  a  wise 
person  who  ain't  ashamed  to  change  his  mind. 
Eh,  Sadie?  Eh?" 

They  were  sliding  down  a  runway  and  drew  up 
now  alongside  a  curb.  A  redcap,  wild  for  fee,  swung 
open  the  cab  door,  immediately  confiscating  all 
luggage. 

"No,  no,  not  that!  You  carry  that  box,  Herm. 
It's  the  padded  underjacket  for  grandma.  Tell  her 
I — I  sent  it  to  her,  Herm — with — with  love." 

"Yes,  Sadie." 

She  was  frankly  crying  now,  edging  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  running  in  little  quick  steps  to 
match  her  pace  to  his. 

At  the  trainside,  during  the  business  of  ticket 
inspection,  she  stood  by,  her  palm  pat  against  her 
mouth  and  tears  galumphing  down.  With  a  face 
that  stood  out  whitely  in  the  gaseous  fog,  Mr. 


HUMORESQUE 

Loeb  fumbled  for  the  red  slip  of  his  berth  reser- 
vation. 

"Well,  Sadie  girl,  three  minutes  more  and — " 

"Oh— oh,  Herm!" 

"If  you  feel  as  bad  as  that,  it's  not  too  late, 
Sadie.  I — you — it  takes  a  wise  little  girlie  to  change 
her  mind.  Eh?  Eh?" 

"No— no,  Herm,  I— " 

He  clenched  her  arm  suddenly  and  tightly. 

"If  you  want  to  come,  girl,  for  God's  sake  now's 
your  time.  Sadie  honey,  you  want  to?" 

She  shook  him  off  through  gasps. 

"No,  no.  Herm,  I — I  can't  stand  it — it's  only 
that  I  feel  so  bad  at  seeing  you —  No — no — not — 
not  now." 

The  ail-aboard  call  rang  out  like  a  shout  in  a 
cave. 

He  was  fumbling  at  his  luggage  for  the  small 
pasteboard  box,  haste  fuddling  his  movements. 

"I'll  be  in  Pittsburgh  to-morrow  till  seven,  honey. 
Sleep  over  it,  and  if  you  change  your  mind,  catch 
the  eleven-forty-five  St.  Louis  flyer  out  of  here  to- 
morrow morning,  and  that  train  '11  pick  me  up  at 
Pittsburgh — eleven  forty-five." 

"Oh,  I—" 

"You  be  the  one  to  bring  this  box  home,  with 
your  own  little  hands,  to  poor  grandma,  honey, 
and — and  if  you  don't  change  your  mind,  why- 
why,  you  can  send  it.  You  be  the  one  to  bring  it  to 
her,  honey.  Remember,  it's  a  wise  girlie  knows 
when  to  change  her  mind!" 

"Oh,  Hermie— Hermie!" 
332 


THE    WRONG    PEW 

"All— aboard!" 

With  her  hands  clasped  and  her  uncovered  face 
twisted,  she  watched  the  snakelike  train  crawl  into 
oblivion. 

When  she  re-entered  the  taxicab  she  was  half 
swooning  of  tears. 

"Don't  cry,  baby,"  said  the  emboldened  chauf- 
feur, placing  the  small  pasteboard  box  up  beside  her. 

In  the  great  old-fashioned  room  in  Fortieth  Street 
— of  two  beds  and  two  decades  ago — she  finally  in 
complete  exhaustion  slid  into  her  white  iron  cot 
against  the  wall,  winding  an  alarm-clock  and  placing 
it  on  the  floor  beside  her. 

Long  before  Miss  Sylvette  de  Long,  with  her  eye- 
lids very  dark,  tiptoed  in,  and,  rubbing  the  calves 
of  her  legs  in  alcohol,  undressed  in  the  dark,  she  was 
asleep,  her  mouth  still  moist  and  quivering  like  a 
child's. 

At  nine-thirty  and  with  dirty  daylight  cluttering 
up  the  cluttered  room,  the  alarm-clock,  full  of  hein- 
ous vigor,  bored  like  an  awl  into  the  morning. 


THE    END 


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